


Inspired

by TuppingLiberty



Category: Original Work
Genre: Afterlife, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Brief mention of cancer, Brief mention of car accident, Communication, Death, Defining the Relationship, Drawing, Dream/Nightmare Elements, Enthusiastic Consent, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Grief, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Traditional Soulmates, Relationship Talks, Rimming, Soulmates, Telepathy, Urban Fantasy, Vampires, Vampires as an allegory for sex, Voyeurism, Watching Marvel Movies, artist!character, non-toxic masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-20 05:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17616779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuppingLiberty/pseuds/TuppingLiberty
Summary: “The muses are ghosts, and sometimes they come uninvited.” - Stephen KingWhere do you get your best ideas? Your ego would have you think that it's all you, of course. The Muses know otherwise - not that they want you to know that.--Rated E because it's me, so there will be eventual smut...--Written for the February Ficlet Challenge 2019: https://februaryficletchallenge.tumblr.com/abouttheffc





	1. Welcome to Headquarters

“Harry, we still on for Sunday? Wings and beer at Chuck’s?”

“You ready to see the Pats lose?” Harry scrubs over over his face, looking in the mirror and shrugging mentally at the shadows under his eyes. His blonde fade is getting a little long; he should take clippers to it tomorrow morning. The mirror also allows him to see the projectile missile that is one of Stephen’s socks, and he narrowly dodges it smacking him in the face. “Gross. Don’t be a sore loser.”

Stephen laughs, retrieving the sock and pulling it on, then tying his well-cushioned shoe up neatly and efficiently. “How is it out there?”

“Not too bad. Expected worse for New Year’s.” He pulls his jacket on over his scrubs, then slips his backpack over his shoulders. He executes the complicated handshake he and Stephen have had for years as a goodbye, ending with the bro-tap on the back before Stephen walks out onto the floor. “Good luck!”

He slips his headphones on. He’s exhausted after the ten hour shift, and there’s at least three different New Year’s parties he’s been invited to, but the thought of his comfy bed and warm blankets is way more enticing. He can meet up for hangover brunch tomorrow, sans hangover. Best of both worlds.

He nods at half a dozen other nurses and hospital personnel before making his way out into the cold, rainy dark.

He’s zoning out on the bus - it’s practically empty, so he’s able to snag a seat - when it happens. There’s a crash, a bang, glass shattering, he’s flying, and then black.

 

The white that surrounds him is a shocking difference to the black. He blinks, bringing his hand up to shield against the light. Nothing seems to come into focus, but panic refuses to come. Logically, he knows he _should_ be freaking out, but he just… isn’t.

“He’s waking.” A female voice that he doesn’t recognize.

“Harry?” Male, now, still not recognizable. And everything is still blurry. A blob comes and sits on the bed - oh, he’s in a bed - beside him.

 _Wait, if I’m in a bed, and I was in an accident on the bus, I’m probably in the hospital…_ He blinks again, and yeah, there’s the wallpaper he recognizes, and the floor, and the sounds he’s grown familiar with the last 8 years he’s been working at Multnomah County General.

The blob sitting on his bed and the blob over by the door sharpen into focus. Doctors. He doesn’t recognize them, and he knows all of the ER doctors. Specialists, maybe. How hurt is he? Harry swallows, and self-assesses. Nothing _feels_ hurt, but that could just be drugs, right? Except he looks down, and there's no catheter for an IV or any evidence there _had been_ one ever. In fact, despite the hospital gown, he can’t see any contusions or bruising or anything to indicate he’d been in an accident.

“What- what happened?” His voice sounds normal, not scratchy from disuse like he’d seen in a hundred different patients waking up for the first time post-trauma.

The doctor by the door clips briskly over to the side of his bed. She’s tapping on a tablet, and splits her attention between Harry and the device. Her cherry-red hair is swept back in an efficient bun, her nimble fingers - tipped with green, spiky fingernails that match her eyes, the only thing about her that isn’t very professional-looking - typing rapidly. “Hello, Harry. I’m Fletcher, and I’m afraid I have some news.”

Harry pushes himself up to to a sitting position, looking between Fletcher and the other doctor. “I was in an accident, right? That’s the last thing I remember. How hurt am I? Did anyone else survive? Where’s Dr. Conrad? She was the one in charge of the ER when I clocked off.”

“Nurse for eight years, primarily in the ER,” Fletcher intones to the other doctor.

The other doctor clicks his tongue. His neatly trimmed beard and perfectly coiffed hair - both brown, a nice compliment to his light brown skin - make him look less like an actual doctor and more like someone who plays one on TV. “That makes sense. Very empathetic. Harry, you’re fine. Not injured at all.” He has a faint accent of some kind. British, maybe.

Harry swallows. “Then why am I in the hospital? Why don’t I remember anything? I should be- no one just blacks out for that long without repercussions. Is this where you tell me I’ve been in a coma for a month?”

“Actually, Harry, I’m afraid that… well, this never gets any easier. You’re dead.”

Harry allows two long beats of silence before he whips off the light hospital sheets and bolts out of the bed. Fletcher and the other doctor make no move to try and stop him as he heads for the hallway, where he can hear all the sounds of a normal hospital floor. As soon as he walks through the door, though, the beeping, the murmurs, the buzzers and beepers and phones and orders for medicine - they all disappear. He looks down at himself, and his hospital gown has become jeans and a t-shirt - something he might put on on one of his days off. He turns around, the strange feeling of needing to panic but not being able to panic threatening to break his brain. The doctors still look like doctors. The room still looks like a hospital room.

With a gulp, he steps back inside the room, and his ears are filled with a rush of hospital sounds. Comforting, even with all of the weirdness currently going on. He looks down, and he’s in the hospital gown again. He can even feel a slight breeze along his back, and he reaches around, covering his ass better with the folds of the gown. His feet are encased in the fuzzy non-slip socks they give patients.

Watching himself, he steps backwards, out of the room again. The sound falls away, his clothing reappears as if by magic.

“What the fuck.” He looks up at the two other people. “What the fuck?”

The TV-hot man walks toward him, and when he walks through the door, he, too, is no longer dressed for the hospital, but in a nice button down and slacks. “Yeah, that was pretty much my first reaction, too. This isn’t going to help right now, but you’re going to experience the stages of grief, I’m afraid. There’s really nothing we can do except help you through them.”

“Am I in...Heaven? Hell? What the fuck. I don’t even believe in this shit…”

“Some religions might call it purgatory, but they’ve got the details wrong.” The man holds out his hand. “Hi. I’m Jack Singh.”

Harry takes it automatically. “Harry Quick.” He watches as Fletcher walks efficiently out of the room, which goes dark behind her. Her non-hospital dress is far less casual than Jack’s. The red updo stays in place, but she looks like she’s wearing something Lady Gaga would wear to an awards show, all swirling greens and sequins. He shakes her hand, too, before looking back at Jack.

“So if it’s not purgatory, what is this place?”

Fletcher smiles, walking in stilt-like high heels over to a railing across from the room. She looks down, nods her head to beckon Harry over.

Harry’s heart skips a beat at the dizzying height over the railing, but he blinks, and his eyes readjust, and all of a sudden it doesn’t seem that bad. They’re looking down at a lobby filled with people - the best resemblance Harry can come up with is an airport terminal, the way some people are lounging, and some people are heading quickly in different directions.  

“This is Headquarters,” Fletcher says, continuing to smile. She looks proud, as if she built everything here herself. Considering what he’s just seen, Harry’s not actually sure she didn’t.

“And I’m dead?”

Fletcher taps at her tablet, then frowns and looks up. “A drunk driver hit your bus on your commute. I’m so sorry, Harry.”

The bang and the glass shattering makes sense now, he guesses. “And you two are dead, too?”

She nods. “Slipped on the bath mat and hit my head on the edge of the counter. Quick and painless.”

Jack joins him at the railing, leaning over it, looking down on the broad sweep of humanity below him. “Testicular cancer. Much less quick and definitely not painless.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmurs automatically. He blinks, scratching at an itch behind his neck, like the tag of his clothing is digging into his skin, and it distracts him for a second. “Wait, Headquarters for what? Don’t tell me I’m an angel.”

Jack smiles, though it doesn’t _feel_ like he’s laughing at Harry. “I won’t, because you’re not. You’re a Muse. Simply put, you enter the dreams of humans and inspire them to greatness.”

That flickers for Harry, as if something about the name rings a bell in the back of Harry’s mind, something from childhood. “Like...Greek stuff?”

Something pings on Fletcher’s tablet, and she furrows her brows. “Jack, that’s Docie and Aaron back, and I need to debrief them. Harry, do you feel comfortable with Jack leading you through the orientation process, if I leave you two?”

Harry looks between Fletcher and Jack, trying to decide. He doesn’t feel panic, though. Just that damn itch at the back of his neck again. He rubs at it, then nods. “I’m okay.”

She smiles at him as if she’s proud of him or something and...flutters off is the best way to put it. She disappears into another room along the corridor, and Harry turns back to Jack expectantly.

“Well, in Greek mythology, there are only 9 Muses. Didn’t get it exactly right there, did they, thank goodness? How on Earth could 9 folks cover the dreams of all of humanity, _even_ if we’re talking thousands of years ago? It’s like believing Santa can deliver presents to all of the children in one night.” He gestures to the people below. “There are roughly a billion Muses and counting. It keeps our caseload nice and light.”

Harry looks down at the lobby again. “There are not a billion people there. How could one building hold a billion people in the first place?”

“Would you believe me if I said ‘magic’?”

Harry thinks about his clothes disappearing and reappearing, and swallows. “Um. Yes.”

“Well, good. That’s a good first step to understanding this place, though I’ve been here for a decade and I don’t understand the metaphysics of it, still.” He pushes away from the railing, gesturing to what had been the hospital room. “But I can show you a little bit. These are your quarters.”

Harry looks around for some type of marking, a door number, something, but sees nothing. “How do I know-”

“The basic rule of magic around here is: if you think of it, you will it into existence. These are your quarters. If you want to come here, you just have to be in the correct corridor - we’re North America, by the way - think of your quarters, and the next door you open will be your quarters. Same works for if you’re looking for someone. Say, if you have a question for me, you step outside your quarters, think of me, and the next door that appears will be my quarters. Although it’s still terribly rude to enter someone’s quarters without their permission here.” Jack reaches inside the darkness to pull the door of the former hospital room closed. “Earlier, this transformed into a hospital room, because that’s what you expected _and_ what you found comfortable. That makes sense, you worked in a hospital, so the image you created was extremely concrete. The sounds were a nice touch. It was like I was back for chemo.”

He makes a little face of displeasure, and Harry winces. “Sorry, man. I know hospitals suck for most people.”

Jack looks like he’s about to shrug it off, then sighs. “Thanks. Anyway, you made me a doctor, not a patient, so I suppose I should thank you.”

“But now it’s all dark. So I take it it’s not a hospital room anymore?”

“Precisely correct. You get to choose the form of your quarters here. Just think of the living space you would be most comfortable in, and it’ll appear on the other side of this door.”

“What if I want to create, like, the White House beyond there? I went once in 8th grade.”

Jack smiles, just raising an eyebrow. “Believe me, you could. Although, you can’t create any other living beings from the magic, so it’d be a very big place all for yourself.”

“What, so no pets?”

“Actually, you can apply for pets, yes. Any animal that can dream, we have Muses for.”

“You get that I’m just expecting to wake up from this extremely lucid dream to find I’ve been in a coma the whole time, right?”

“Of course. Denial is the first step in grief, after all.” Jack offers him a sad, yet encouraging smile. “Do you want to try your new powers out?”

Harry blinks at the change of subject, then turns to the closed door. “I guess. Um. So I just think it, and it appears?”

“Just so.”

Harry takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, thinking of his apartment back in Portland, but with a few adaptations. He doesn’t think about them in a concrete sense, just a vague notion of more space and light and better appliances in the kitchen. He reaches out for the door handle and opens his eyes. As he pushes inside, there’s that white light again for a second, and everything is out of focus, but when he blinks, it settles down into the lines of his apartment. Or, maybe, what his apartment would be like without three extra roommates. It’s more open, yes, and more light - he’s mysteriously at the top of building now, because he has sky lights. One opens right above his kitchen, flooding it with natural light. And the appliances, he notes, bemused, are perfect, new chrome compliments to the wooden cabinets.

“This is lovely,” Jack says from behind him. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” Harry mutters, walking in farther to explore the place. Here’s his DVD and Blu Ray collection, how he always has them organized. The wall art is the same. It looks just like his apartment, though cleaner without the clutter that four people bring to it, especially if one of them lives on the sofa. His mind pangs for a second - if he’s truly gone, will Chris move into his bedroom? Will they have to find a new fourth roommate? Who’s going to have to clean all of his stuff out of the apartment? That...that is a line of inquiry that Harry doesn’t want to dwell on. He moves past the living area and down the corridor to the bedrooms. The first is Nayeli’s, and yeah, when he swings the door open, it looks exactly like he saw it last, down to the band posters, ripped from years of moving them from one location to another, that still adorn the walls.

“You can will the extra rooms away if you want. If you want the extra space, or you don’t want the room here. If it hurts to think of them.”

Harry turns back to Jack, and is shocked to find him standing in the middle of the living/kitchen area looking like he just came from some artisanal restaurant full of deconstructed mac n’ cheese and vintage vodka. He’s got a cap perched jauntily on his styled brown hair, and his beard has transformed into a well-oiled and painstakingly manicured mustache, and he’s wearing bright yellow skinny jeans and a shirt advertising a band Harry’s never heard of. In other words, he looks exactly like every other Portland hipster he sees around his neighborhood. He lets out a little snort.

Jack grins. “Ooo, what’s the dress code? Let me see.” He heads for the hallway mirror, and laughs, too. “You know, I died right at the start of the whole hipster thing, but this is...this is something.”

“If you have the magic to will anything into existence, how come you’re dressed like something you aren’t?”

“Oh, you set the dress code for your quarters. Just wait, if you visit Fletcher’s, you’ll be wearing _haute couture_ too.”

“Well, some of this works, but that ‘stache…” Harry closes his eyes, brings Jack’s face to mind, and fixes it. When he opens his eyes, Jack’s beard is back, although it’s still looking rather hipstery.

Jack strokes it. “I like it.” He winks - Harry’s heart stutters as he notices - a mascara’d eye at Harry.

“So...this is my place. But nicer.”

“It _is_ nice. I like the light.”

“Do I even need to eat?”

“Not really, no. But Muses, especially new Muses, tend to gather around food anyway. It still tastes good, and it feels good to have something to do besides just sit around twiddling our thumbs.”

“What _do_ we do? What’s the catch here?”

Jack sits down in Nayeli’s bean bag chair and gestures to the couch. He’s too tall for the bag, and his limbs look all akimbo, which makes Harry want to smile. Instead, he sits right at the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, folding his hands together, and awaits Jack's response. “We enter people’s dreams, is the short, easy answer. We guide, or nudge, or inspire. Muses are responsible for some of the best ideas humanity has ever had. Fire? That was us. The sewing needle, so humans could craft clothing that kept out the cold of the Ice Age? Also us. But… if we put it that way, then we’re also responsible for the some of the worst ideas on Earth. The nuclear bomb. Sarin gas. Concentration camps. And that’s where we get to rule number 1: we can guide, but we can’t direct. We have no idea how the human is going to interpret the idea we’ve given them. And ultimately, for our own sanity, we have to divest ourselves of that connection. These aren’t _your_ ideas, and if you guide someone and then they do something immoral, well. It’s rough, believe me, but it’s not your fault. We’ve lost a lot of good Muses that way.”

Harry feels a little sick to his stomach. “That seems like a lot of responsibility.”

“I’m making it sound too big. Most of the time? We’re entering the dreams of someone to give them that boost to write a novel, or to really try and land that kickflip on their skateboard, or to ask that guy out. Most of the time, it’s not life or death, I promise.”

“O-kay.” Harry takes a deep breath in and out. “So, first rule, I can’t directly manipulate someone into doing what I want. Got it.”

“Second rule is that this is not a forever home. This is an in-between. Not everyone comes to Headquarters - you have to have certain qualities to be a Muse. You’re a nurse, which means you’re high on empathy. Muses need empathy, and creative thinking. The rest of the population moves on...to where, we don’t know. If you decide, after orientation, that you’d like to move on as well, you’re free to do so at any time. I’m an atheist myself, so once I jump into the Core, I’m not expecting to be greeted by pearly gates, or anything, but we just honestly don’t know. No one has ever come back from the Core to tell us. What we do know is that you’re not meant to stay here. Otherwise the Quirk wouldn’t exist.”

“The Quirk?”

“You might have noticed that everything in Headquarters is really clean and lovely and comfortable. It’s really hard to, say, work up a panic here in Headquarters. And whoever, the powers that be, or however this started - anyway, the magic that runs this place wants you to be comfortable. Except for one thing. The Quirk. Whatever your Quirk is, it’s some annoying, nagging little thing that makes life not perfect.”

Harry catches his fingers mid-scratch at the back of his neck. “Like an itch that never goes away?”

Jack laughs. “Yeah. I mean, you can scratch it, and it’ll feel good, but it will always come back.”

“What’s yours?”

“My feet are always cold. No matter what I try, I can’t get my feet to stay warm, even in socks and shoes, for more than an hour. I’m fairly sure it’s some poetic justice for complaining about my husband’s chilly toes on my calves.”

“Oh? Is he here?”

“No. He’s still in Massachusetts. He has a very lovely wife, and they just adopted.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Jack gives a little shrug. “I’m happy that he’s happy. That’s all I can be.”

“So the Quirk...makes it so you don’t want to stay?”

“The problem is, the longer a Muse stays, the more out of touch they become with collective human knowledge, right? We’re stuck here at Headquarters. The last iPhone I remember is the 3G. A million new things have been invented since I died. Eventually, I won’t be able to understand anything in my clients’ dreams. Imagine someone from Ancient Rome trying to figure out what the hell is happening in a modern teenager’s dream right now.”

“I can see where there might be issues, yeah.”

“So, it’s best for Muses to move along. Get fresh blood, as it were. Speaking of…” Jack executes a ridiculous-looking move, rolling out of the bean bag chair and ending up on his stomach in front of Harry’s DVD collection. It makes Harry smile, despite...everything, the strange situation, the whole dead thing, the magic - there’s something very grounding in seeing Jack laying on the floor of his living room. Especially when Jack plucks a DVD off the shelf, looks over his shoulder, and gives Harry a wink. “I knew we were going to get along.”

“Spider-Man: Homecoming?”

“Haven’t seen it. And I swear we’ve gone through a string of newcomers that aren’t nerds _at all._ It’s such a fucking travesty I died before Tom Holland hit the scene. Look at this adorable little Brit.” He taps the DVD case, then pops it into the player, a faint blush darkening his cheeks. “Sorry. Sometimes the gay is too much to hold back.”

Harry snorts, tucking his legs up to his side and bringing one of his pillows up to hug as Jack settles in next to him and the opening trailers start to play. “Dude, it’s okay. You’re among good company. Although I’m more of a Tony Stark guy myself.”

“Mmm, mhmm. I used to watch Iron Man - the original, of course - on repeat during chemo. Did you know that the mountains in the beginning, that Stark blows up, are actually the Sierra Nevadas? There’s this town in the middle of nowhere California that’s famous for filming movies.  Sadly the last MCU I got to see in theaters was The Incredible Hulk. What a way to go.” Jack’s eyes are intent on the screen when Harry slides a glance his way.

Harry knows he’s still processing the shock - hell, Jack was right, earlier, he’s still in full-on denial - but he can’t imagine just...casually commenting on his own death the way Jack does. Especially with all Jack left behind, it seems. At least Harry doesn’t have a boyfriend...but then his thoughts dart to his mom and dad. _Oh shit._

How many times has he seen the devastation of a parent’s face as the doctor informs them that their child is gone? He imagines Dr. Conrad giving his mom and dad the little head shake. His parents collapsing in on each other, holding each other in the ER. Having to bury their only kid.

He’s choking on his breath before he realizes it, the trailer on the TV screen going blurry. The whole room starts to blur, to flicker between that clean, clinical white light and his apartment. And then Jack’s wrapping a blanket around him, one of the afghans Chris uses at night, and the sob he’d been holding back finally breaks free.

He buries his face in the pillow, feeling the warmth of Jack’s hand on his back, rubbing in soothing circles. He’s still fighting the tears, but the pillow is already wet with them, and besides, Jack seems to be taking this little freak out all in stride.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles, wiping at his still leaking eyes.

“It’s okay. I’m here for you. Whatever you need. Or if you want some space, I understand.” Jack fishes a monogrammed handkerchief out of his pocket. “Glad this is still here even if I’m in your hipster gear,” he mutters, handing it over.

Harry thumbs over the embroidered monogram in the corner, the little **J A S** done up in a curving blue thread. Something hits him, and he chokes out a laugh amidst the tears, even as he brings the cloth up to his face to wipe it. “Are you sure you died before the whole hipster thing? Because carrying around a pocket square with your initials is so…Portland.”

“I had one before it was cool,” Jack intones, his voice perfectly dry.

Harry glances up at him, startled into letting his mouth hang open. “But- that’s-” Something flickers in Jack’s eyes, mirth, and the corners of his lips turn slightly up. It’s a subtle change, but it’s enough to make Harry laugh out loud. “Okay, you’re good.”

“It’s the dry British wit, I assure you.”

Harry scrubs over his face, sure it’s puffy and red. Then again, with all the magic around here, he can look exactly how he wants, can’t he? He lets his eyes close, thinking about looking normal, and feels a relieving coolness sooth his face.

“You don’t have to do that if you don’t want to,” Jack murmurs. “No one is going to judge a newbie for a crying jag.”

“It’s more comfortable this way,” Harry excuses, willing the handkerchief back into it’s clean, dry, and ironed state before handing it back to Jack. “But thanks.”

Jack scoots back over, his hand no longer rubbing circles over Harry’s back. “It’s never easy, the first little bit. Everyone grieves differently.”

“Well, thanks for sticking around, then.”

“Hey, you’re my partner. I wouldn’t abandon you during this.”

Harry glances up at Jack sharply. “Partner?”

“Muses work best in groups. Pairs is most common, but you see more, sometimes, or less. But we’d never abandon you to yourself during the grieving period. We lose a lot of Muses to the Core that way.” Jack looks a little like he regrets his wording. “Well, maybe ‘lose’ isn’t the best way to put it. It’s their choice to move on when they want to.”

“So you were assigned to me?”

“Kind of. You pinged in Fletcher’s tablet as being a partner compatibility option. Nothing’s set in stone. If you don’t like me, we can see other people,” Jack says very seriously, but he has that twinkle in his eye again. “But really, I won’t be offended. Turns out, I’m a hard match!” He exclaims it like he’s very proud of that fact.

Jack’s antics have him smiling again, even though he’s feeling wrung out. He nods at the screen. “Movie’s starting, finally.”

“Excellent.” Jack scrunches his face together, and then a bowl of popcorn - perfectly yellow with fake butter - appears in between them.

“Wait - so how come you couldn’t just magic up the movie, if you can make popcorn appear out of thin air?”

“I’ve never seen it. I could conjure up _a_ Spider-Man: Homecoming movie, but it wouldn’t be the real one. Which can be fun, but I’m wanting the real experience, you know?” He pulls a handful of popcorn out and starts eating it a kernel at a time.

Harry’s able to settle back in, float in some space in between sad and distracted. He keeps imagining his parents’ faces, but it’s less overwhelming now, somehow. Still, his eyes tear up every so often.

And when they do, Jack’s hand will settle on Harry’s shoulder, and just rub there, and Harry manages to feel slightly less overwhelmed.

 

He falls asleep somewhere in the second act, feeling drained. When he comes to, Jack is waiting for the end credits scene, and Harry is, embarrassingly, cuddled up against him. He pushes back, scrubbing over his face. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Jack just shrugs. “It’s all good. My feet were warm for like, a solid 15 minutes, tucked under you there.” He flashes Harry a winning grin, and Harry can’t help but smile back.

“You’re the most well-adjusted dead person I’ve ever met.”

“Well, I’ve had a bit more practice than you. Give it time.” He stands, stretching his hands to the ceiling which exposes a little strip of brown skin at his stomach that makes _Harry’s_ stomach do weird flippy-floppy things. “Fancy a walk? I could give you a bit of a tour if you feel like leaving your quarters.”

Harry glances at the door to his apartment. Ensconced here, he could almost forget what lay beyond. Then he looks up at Jack’s proffered hand, and takes it to pull himself up off the couch.

“Maybe you could show me what I’m doing here, instead.”

Jack gives him his little smirk. “I can do that.”


	2. Telepathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack takes Harry into his first dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the prompt for 2/1 is Telepathy. So I guess we have telepathy in this universe now. :D

Once they’re out in the corridor again, Harry can see the faint outline of North America etched into the walls. He wonders idly if the magic that imbues Headquarters will even  _ let _ him get lost, and hopes it won't. 

“We’re going to have to go down to the lobby anyway, to get to our dream station, so I’ll give you the penny tour now and we can get more in depth later.” Jack leads him down the open hallway, the sound of the millions of people in the lobby below somehow muted. Well, Harry supposes, all of those “somehows” can be explained away with magic now. 

The elevator ride is surprisingly short. Harry’s more surprised at the fact that they share the ride down with about twenty other people - without anyone seeming squished. They all spill out into the expansive lobby, heading every which way. Harry jolts - though only a little - when Jack’s hand lands on the small of his back, guiding him the correct direction. It drops away as they start walking.

“Why does it look so much like an airport terminal?” 

Amazingly, Jack just shrugs. “I like to think it’s kind of like in video games, how you only have the processing memory to render images up to a certain distance, or the whole game crashes. A billion brains trying to think, ‘oh, this is what I want Headquarters to look like’? It’s like a neutral zone instead. You can’t change anything here, only in a dedicated space.” 

Just like a terminal, the edges of the lobby are lined with restaurants and other forms of entertainment. The one closest to Harry seems to be a gigantic library, the shelves of books going back farther than Harry can make out. Next to that, there’s a restaurant, and then what looks to be an entire room that is broken up into ideal meeting spaces for small groups. Harry can see a few groups interacting animatedly as they play a board game, or chat over coffee. 

“The powers that be seem to believe that all of these hobbies and activities and outside pursuits help with our creativity in-dream. You can find a group of people down for just about anything. I just joined a murder mystery dinner group. It should be cool.” 

“I can see why people wouldn’t want to leave,” Harry murmurs as they walk, idly scratching the itch behind his neck again. 

“And why Quirks are important. This way.” Jack pauses in front of a door marked with North America again. After a second - did it scan them or something? - the door swings open, letting them inside. 

If the lobby is an airport terminal, the work area reminds Harry of when he worked at a call center in college - just a sea of cubicles. He shudders, just a little. 

“Yeah, it’s kind of hive-esque. But once we’re in our space, that all just kind of fades away.” Sure enough, when he follows Jack into a cubicle near the front, he’s surprised to see, above the normal office accoutrements, windows flooding in beautiful light, overlooking a cityscape he doesn’t recognize. The buildings, the streets, everything is covered in a layer of snow. 

“Boston. I suppose my mother would be sad I didn’t choose London, but it helps, just a little, with the homesickness. An untouched blanket of snow greeting you on a lazy Sunday morning. And,” Jack flashes him his little grin, “It’s all magic, so I don’t have to deal with shoveling and snow plows.” 

Harry laughs, settling into one of the comfortable rolling office chairs as Jack does the same. 

Jack pulls out a folder, spreading it out on the desk. “Tech wise, you can choose what you like. I like this, being able to see it all in front of me at once. First step, review your client’s info.” He places a school photo of a teenage girl with dark brown skin, thick black glasses, and a tight-lipped smile. “This is Liliana Perez, 17 years old, on track to graduate - sorry, sometimes I get stuck back in teacher mode - but she’s not sure what she wants to do after that. The quintessential question, of course. This is a pretty standard case. ‘Course, I’ve been with her since she was a baby, just little nudges. You should have seen the hair color she tried out in eighth grade because of me.” 

Jack’s grin, like always, Harry is finding, is infectious. “So, she doesn’t know what she wants to do. Why are we making a 17 year old decide what they want to do?” 

“Hey, I wanted to be a teacher at age 6, when I helped Jessie learn his ABCs so he wouldn’t get held in from recess.” 

“Of course you did. I only landed on nursing when retail work got way too horrible.” 

“Your Muse would say otherwise.” 

Harry jolts. “Wait- you mean- wait-” 

“If you want to meet them, we can figure it out. Fletcher would have the records in your file.” 

Harry sits back, letting the chair spin a little, floored. Of course he had a Muse. He’s almost struck the most by how he hadn’t realized it until just now. “That might break my brain, Jack.” 

Jack laughs appreciatively, and pats his knee. “Okay, so if we’re trying to keep you intact… let’s focus back on Lily. She’s very organized. She’s not squeamish at the sight of blood. She cares about making people feel better.” Jack lifts his eyebrows, willing Harry to connect the dots.

“You’re thinking medical field.”

“I mean, it doesn’t hurt to nudge. She’s only 17, she doesn’t have to make a decision for the rest of her life.” 

“I kind of wish you’d been my guidance counselor.” 

Jack brushes that aside, though his cheeks pinken a little. “Pretend you’re Lily’s, instead. What advice would you give someone her age with her skills?” 

Harry thinks back to his schooling as Jack waits expectantly. “I’d say...she should try to get some experience before she spends all that money on schooling.” 

“Okay, that’s a good start. Now take a step back. How do we get her to even think about the idea of getting some experience?” 

“I guess…” A memory slides to the forefront of Harry’s mind. One of his first ER shifts. So many shifts are heart attacks, or broken bones, or people having panic attacks who think they’re having heart attacks - not that Harry judges those folks. He’s literally been there, done that. Yay, calculus. 

But one memory stands out from the early days. “Yeah, I remember-” 

Jack cuts him off, grinning. “Yeah, that’ll work.” 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” 

“I can tell by the look on your face. Okay. We’re going in.” 

“How-” Harry stares blankly at him for a second. “How do we do that?” 

Jack pulls out a drawer, and reaches inside for two devices that look a bit like smart watches. “This takes us in and out. Okay, so, the stakes are pretty low, okay? None of that, 'if you die in your dreams, you die in real life' Elm Street stuff. But, as I’m sure you know, dreams can be a bit chaotic. One minute you’re enjoying a beach in Belize and the next you’re being attacked by zombies. No? Just me? Okay then.” 

Harry snorts, slipping the watch on. The face glows green, just as Jack’s does. 

“We’re going to tap the green to go into the dream, and tap the red to get out. Like I said, if you’re ever feeling anxious or unsafe, it’s okay to pull the ripcord. No one will judge you lesser for it, okay?” 

“Got it.” 

Jack checks the chart one last time. “Lily’s cortisol levels are normal, but that doesn’t mean we’re clear of nightmare or anxiety dream territory.” His eyes meet Harry’s. “Ready to see it?” 

“Fuck, no.” 

Jack just gives him that sly grin. “Tap the green in three...two...one…”

 

Harry blinks through that sterile white light that he’s slowly getting used to seeing now. Shapes appear around him, amorphous blobs that make a couch here, or a dining table there, before sliding along to something else. 

_ This is Lily’s creation. Humans can’t get as concrete as we can, that’s why it looks like this.  _

It’s Jack’s voice in his head, of course, and Harry whips around the swirling white-not white-living room-not a living room space, where Lily is watching TV. Jack’s standing over her. 

_ Oh hey, did I forget to mention the telepathy? _

**_YES. What if I think of something...I don’t even know. Wrong?_ **

_ If you’re picturing me naked, it’s okay, I won’t see it. Just things you think, uh,  _ _ toward _ _ me. If that makes sense. _

**_Well_ ** **_now_ ** **_I’m picturing you naked, thanks._ **

_ You’re welcome.  _ Jack's laughter echoes in his head. 

**_Can she see us?_ **

_ Not really. She’s in a neutral state right now. Comfortable. She won’t remember this part of her sleep come morning.  _ Jack stares intently at the couch, and a bowl of popcorn appears beside her.  _ Movies are always better with popcorn. And a friend, _ Jack adds with a grin in his direction. 

**_So what do I do?_ **

_ Well, you need to figure out how to get her to where you want her to go.  _

**_I need her at the hospital._ **

_ Check the door, then.  _ Jack nods at the door, one Harry presumed led to the backyard. Instead, when he opens it, there’s his ER at Multnomah General. 

**_Okay, I’m so not used to that._ ** Harry pauses, looking back at Lily. She’s still sitting on the couch, watching TV. But if there was no couch…

The second he thinks it, the couch disappears under Lily, and she lands on the floor with a soft yelp, looking confused, the bowl of popcorn spilling around her. Harry winces. 

_ It’s okay, champ. You’re doing great. _

**_Spare me your teacherly platitudes._ **

Still, Lily’s looking around now, away from the TV and toward the open door to Multnomah General. She frowns, pushing up to her feet and walking over to peer inside. 

_ Perfect, _ Jack says as she walks inside.  _ Okay, so you can continue watching her like an outsider, or… you could be her, if you want. It’s a little easier for newbies.  _

**_How do I-_ ** But he’s already being drawn toward her, slipping through her like a ghost, until his form seems to settle in hers. Jack snaps his fingers, and a mirror appears in his hands, and yes, Harry can see that he is now Lily. He is a 17 year old Latina girl. Okay. 

**_How much did you guys crib from Quantum Leap?_ **

Jack laughs again.  _ They cribbed it from  _ _ us _ _ , babe. Rather, that would be a Muse letting just a little too much of the family secrets out, as it were.  _

Harry snorts, walking forward, his movements clear now. He’s done this a million times. Relived this moment in his brain a million more. He’s tired; it’s the end of shift, and he’s still not used to the hours. He’s running between an intake and an IV change when the EMTs pull up with a gurney. As he’s been trained, as the closest, he meets the doctor and the EMTs at the door and carefully follows anything the doctor asks him to do. 

It’s a kid on the gurney. Probably heat stroke, the doctor thinks, playing soccer. They get him on fluids quickly, and see a rapid improvement. The mother sobs and pulls Harry into his arms, thanking him repeatedly. 

The idea that he helped relieve a little of the terror she’d felt - it’s always stuck with him. It’s not a traumatic injury - the kid walked away, just fine, thank God, or whomever. But the mom, crying in his arms, that’s the moment he felt absolute confidence he was in the right place. 

He can feel Lily feel it, too, which is a weird sensation. He feels an absolute rightness settle into him, and Jack is looking on proudly, so Harry slips out of her, coming to stand by Jack. The scene is playing out a bit like it does when he relives it - and that is, in the happy, cheery bits, none of the tired feet or mountains of paperwork or variety of patients he still needs to care for. It’s just like a dream in that regard. 

_ Beautiful. _ Jack sounds a little awed, certainly respectful. 

In the next instant, Jason Momoa crashes through the wall riding a dolphin, and Jack taps the red button for both of them before they get splashed by the wave. 

 

“And that would be one of the moments that we just need to let Lily play out for herself.” 

Harry blinks rapidly - he’s really  _ not _ getting used to that part, thank you very much, dream magic - and grips the arms of his chair. “That was- holy shit, that was weird.” 

“But good?” 

Harry lets the feelings crash through him like Jason Momoa riding a dolphin, and finally lands on- “Yeah, really fucking good.” 

Jack’s pulling him up into a hug before he knows it. “Welcome to the team, man!” 


	3. Prompt 2/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his first day of work, Jack helps Harry discover his creative outlet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zabzab suggested I put the prompt at the end notes, so that's what I'm going to do :D

“Okay.” Jack swivels around in his chair, where Harry is tapping out notes from their last dream visit on  _ his  _ preferred method of keeping track - a computer. 

“Okay?” Harry asks, slightly distracted. The last one had been weird; an anxiety dream. Their client, Isaiah, had been avoiding going to the dentist because of anxiety. It had felt strange to give the guy a bad dream, but Jack had explained how sometimes it was a necessary step for humans to act. His cortisol levels had been off the charts, anyway, so if Isaiah was going to have an anxiety dream because of that, Jack had wanted to steer it in a productive direction. 

The whole thing has left him feeling a little drained, like he could maybe use a nap, and he wonders idly how long their hours are.

“Okay, I know you’re not hungry-” Harry does a gut check, and is surprised to find Jack is right, even though they have to have been at this for hours. “-but what’re you  _ craving _ right now? If you could have any food in the world. Answer without thinking.”

“Waffles,” Harry answers automatically. “With strawberries and whipped cream.” 

“Oh my god, I know just the place.” Jack jumps up, full of energy despite their long work, and starts leading them out of the cubicle space. “Okay, so, have you ever heard of Liège waffles? Supposedly, like, the prince of Liège, this town in Belgium, wanted his chef to make something with this hot new food, pearl sugar. And so he made this brioche-like dough with pearl sugar and turned it into a waffle. The prince was so delighted that he quickly popularized it throughout the country. Now, there are a few things wrong with that story. First of all, the dates of this supposed prince don’t add up with the timeline for pearl sugar. Secondly, the price of sugar-” Jack pauses, laughing deprecatingly at himself. “Sorry, you have no interest in this, I’m sure.” 

Keeping stride with Jack’s long legs, Harry shrugs. “It’s your thing, right? Collecting random useless facts.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t call them  _ useless, _ but...yes.” Jack just grins, and Harry can’t hold his own back. “Even when I was alive.” 

“I’ve never had a Liège waffle.”

“Oh. My. God. Harry, I’m so excited for you.” 

 

Minutes later, they’re seated on the patio of a quaint little cafe. Harry could have sworn they had gone farther back into the lobby to find a table, but somehow, their cafe table is outside, the air smelling fresh, not recycled, birds twittering in the trees, the low murmur of conversation coming from the tables around them. It reminds him exactly of a beautiful summer day on the waterfront in Portland. 

“Okay, so if I’ve never eaten it, how am I going to make it appear?’ 

“That’s why I’m here. Strawberries and whipped cream, you said?” 

“And chocolate sauce,” Harry adds impulsively. 

“And chocolate sauce.” Jack scrunches up his nose adorably, the way he does when he’s about to create something out of thin air. And sure enough, a plate appears in front of him. It’s a thick-looking waffle, smothered in fresh strawberries - they look local, and delicious - whipped cream, and just a smattering of chocolate sauce. Jack’s own plate has what looks like a waffle covered in cheese and basil and balsamic vinegar. “I’m more of a brie man myself. Dig in.” 

He does, and though he’s not hungry, he finds himself going for bite after bite, savoring the crunch of the pearl sugar on the outside of the waffle, and how it never got too saturated in liquid to become soggy. When he’s eaten what he feels is his fill, Harry leans back in his chair, watching Jack polish off his waffle. The leaves on the trees are fluttering in a slight breeze, the same little wind that’s tousling Jack’s carefully coiffed brown hair. 

Harry’s fingers suddenly itch for his sketch pad. He hasn’t had time to do much drawing in the last few years: sleep and work seem to have taken up most of his days and nights. He’s surprised - though by now, really, he shouldn’t be - when a coil-bound pad of drawing paper and a set of pencils appears on his lap. 

Jack raises an eyebrow, and Harry, inspired, holds up his hand. “Wait, hold that face. Right there.” Harry takes out his phone and snaps a quick picture, before breaking into the pencil package. “Okay, you can let the eyebrow go down now.” 

Jack laughs even as Harry’s hand begins to move quickly over the first page of the wonderfully blank - soon to be not so blank - book. He sketches in rough lines of Jack’s face, his beard, those beautiful eyes, the cafe table, and his Liège waffle as Harry remembers it looking. There’s a blush on Jack’s cheeks, the way it darkens the brown skin appealing. When he’s done with the rough lines, he goes back, darkening and finalizing and erasing and redrawing. He gets completely lost in the work, glancing between Jack and his drawing pad. 

He’s not sure how long all of this takes, but Jack is an extremely patient model. And when he’s done with the initial sketch, he sets the book on the table and sits up straight again, an enormous amount of energy flooding his system. Jack’s looking at him expectantly. 

“That’s- I feel- I feel fucking amazing, like I could run a marathon, right now.” 

Jack grins. “I mean, you could. We have all kinds of indoor and outdoor trails. But, I think you just discovered your thing. Or one of them.” 

“Like collecting random facts is your thing, you mean?” 

“The thing that energizes you. Muses, we don’t need sleep, but we have to have a creative outlet, or we burn out. I think you just found yours. And yeah, one of mine is learning random facts. Hence, why they’re totally not useless and why I  _ will _ continue to pester you with them.” 

“Dude, if that makes you feel like drawing does for me, go for it. Pester all you want.” Harry stands, tucking his sketchbook under his arm. “Come on, let’s go do your thing, get you all revved up again!” 

Jack joins him, laughing. “Youth,” he grumbles with fake sternness, even though technically, Harry is pretty sure he’s older than Jack - or at least how old Jack was when he died. Jack allows him to tug him along through the cafe, all good humor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was "blank book" :)


	4. 2/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new day, and Jack has a new type of dream to introduce Harry to.

The next ‘day’ - Harry has a hard time figuring out night from day, when at Headquarters, it can be anything you want - finds them in the North America workroom again, in their cubicle, still overlooking a snow-covered Boston. 

“We can change the channel, as it were. If you have a place you’d rather see,” Jack offers, setting down an empty mug in front of Harry. This, at least, he understands now; he’s supposed to fill the mug with whatever he wants. Jack offering the mug is a little bit of Muse hospitality. 

Harry thinks of a perfect cup of coffee with the proper amounts of cream and sugar, then hums over his first sip at the same time Jack hums over his mug of English breakfast. “No, I like this for now. Although it might get weird if it never changes season.” 

“Noted. Okay, let’s see who we have on the docket today.” Jack shuffles through his files, pulling out a folder and - blushing? “Oh, Andrew. Okay. Um.” He swivels towards Harry. “Okay, so this would definitely be a good learning experience for you, but also, um, if you get uncomfortable, remember your red button.” 

Other than the anxiety dream yesterday, things have seemed pretty tame, so he can’t imagine what has Jack so flustered. The picture of the client gives no clues: Harry guesses Andrew is in his late thirties, hair starting to go gray in that distinguished way some people get. 

“You see, with Andrew, we’re trying to work towards, um.” Jack coughs. “He wants the courage to go to a kink event.” 

Harry knows his eyes bulge out of their sockets in surprise. “A  _ kink _ event?” 

“Okay, so, it’s time we had the sex talk.” 

“I know what sex-” 

“Okay, the sex  and _ Muses  _ and _ dreams  _ and _ clients  _ and _ consent _ talk.” Jack raises an eyebrow sternly, and Harry suddenly understands what made him a teacher. “Normally, sex dreams are something we let clients deal with themselves. Everyone has their fantasies, obviously, but the issue, of course, is consent. Here I am, a Muse, totally in control of everything in the dream, and the client is completely under my influence. There’s no way to establish consent, no way to negotiate, with a client. So, sex, normally, is off limits.”

“Okay, yeah, that all tracks.” Harry takes another sip of his coffee.   


“So when we have a client like Andrew, we could just pass on this desire. Let him work it out on his own. No one will judge you for not wanting to take that on. But… I’d like to see Andrew get the courage to do this. I think it would help him a lot.”

“I’m just realizing how much this job is like...therapy...and I have no training in that,” Harry says with a frown.  

“Remember, they decide how to take your dream. There are a billion books on dream interpretation out there for a reason. All you’re doing is making suggestions. You’re like...the annoying friend who offers advice after you pour your heart out to them when all you’re wanting is a sympathetic shoulder.” 

It makes Harry snort, because he knows exactly the type. “I’m more the sympathetic shoulder type.” 

“In real life, maybe. But here, there are no consequences for being the advice giver. You just dispense, and see where it takes your client.” 

Harry mulls over that, feeling slightly better, but still worried about how he can actually keep up with this job. He feels like his natural compassion will only get him so far. “So, without sex, how do you get a client to make a decision about sex?” 

Jack offers a grin. “We deal in allegory.” He flips open to a page of Andrew’s file and taps a word. “And it just so happens Andrew was raised on a healthy dose of Anne Rice.” 

Harry leans over to look at the word under Jack’s finger.  _ Vampires. _

“Tap the green button in three...two...one…” 

 

_ Remember, you can tap out anytime you need to. _

Jack’s voice filters into his head as the white dream magic fades into a darker scene. Allegory be damned, the whole room is sex personified- no-  _ roomified. _ There are a billion lit candles of varying shapes and sizes, a mix of blood red -  _ allegory to hit you over the head,  _ Harry thinks - and white. They’re in a bedroom, and Harry gets the idea, the  _ feeling _ of black silk sheets more than he can make them out. Andrew’s laying naked on the bed, a sheet strategically covering his lower half. 

It’s Jack that makes his heart stop, though, as he approaches the bed. Jack is apparently the creature of the night, a hint of the candle light reflecting in his eyes making them glow. He’s wearing black leather pants, and no shirt, and Harry’s jaw wants to drop at the smooth expanse of taut skin. Jack’s not a muscle god or anything, but he’s trim, neat, like he uses the muscles he does have for a variety of outdoor activities. There’s a smattering of black curls over his pecs, and Harry is swamped with the sudden desire to nose through them, find a pebbled nipple and suck. Jack’s eyes have that eyeliner/shadow again, and he looks dark, mysterious, and handsome as all get out. 

He’s not the only one that thinks so, obviously, as Andrew practically melts into the bed when Jack sits down beside him. 

“You came.” Andrew’s voice sounds breathy, excited. 

“You invited me,” Jack murmurs, and it’s like Harry’s never heard before. Deep, a little brooding, all sex. “You want me.” 

Andrew nods eagerly, reaching up to pull Jack down. Jack resists, though, a stern hand landing on Andrew’s chest and pushing him down. Andrew’s eyes go black with desire, anticipation. 

“Offer yourself to me. Submit to me,” Jack commands, and Harry shivers. Andrew does the same, letting himself melt into the silk sheets again. 

“Yes, sir.” He arches his head, baring his neck, an enticing length of pale skin that gleams in the candlelight. 

Harry can  _ feel _ Jack’s desire, just as Andrew can. When Jack leans over, his fangs sinking into Andrew’s artery, both Harry and Andrew shudder. Harry barely suppresses his moan, but of course Andrew doesn’t have to. His fingers slide through Jack’s hair, and he presses Jack’s head against his neck even as he arches up against him. 

_ I think things are going to get naughty from here. _

Jack’s voice, though telepathic, seems to come from behind him, and Harry whirls around. Jack is there, and when Harry glances over to the bed, the vampire figure that Jack once inhabited has become more amorphous. 

_ He’s controlling it now. We should skedaddle. _

**_Skedaddle?_** Harry thinks, even as he taps the red button and gets sucked out of the dream. 

 

“Okay, how was that for your first time?” 

Harry knows his cheeks are red flags. He idly wishes the windows were real so that he could stick his head out into the freezing air and get some relief. “Seemed good,” he manages in a strangled voice. 

“I’ll understand if you don’t want to come into that kind of thing. Totally your choice. I just wanted you to see the lines we walk.” 

Harry pushes up from his chair, his erection obvious in his pants. Quickly, he conjures his sketch pad and holds it in front of him. “Right. Um. Yeah, it was good. I understand. I think I’m going to go. Um. Take a creativity break. Feeling really drained.”  _ I need to go allegorically take care of this boner. _

Jack’s eyes are wide, but knowing, as he stands, too. “Harry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I don’t want things to become awkward between us.” 

Harry looks down at his sketchbook-covered indignity, and lets out a strangled laugh. “I don’t think things could be any more  _ awkward  _ between us.” 

Unlike his vampire persona, this Jack looks humble, self-effacing, his hands slipping behind his back. “Does it help if I tell you that it’s not an unusual reaction?” 

“What, do all of your partners get turned on by your sexy vampire voice?” 

“What, wait- no. No. Me? You find me attractive?” 

“Are you blind? Have you seen you?” 

“I could say the same, you know.” Jack takes a step closer to him, his head tilting as he takes in Harry’s face, his reactions. 

“Wait, seriously?” 

“Yeah. Since yesterday. Can you feel it, too?” Jack’s mouth is hovering inches from his.

“I need to know I’m not going to be another notch on your belt, Mr. Sex.” 

Jack’s eyebrows lift. “You are vastly overestimating my attractiveness.” 

“No, I’m not. You’re not telling me you’ve never done this before. Take a newbie into a sex dream to get them all riled up.” 

He gets a glare for this, and Jack steps away. “No, I haven’t. I haven’t- since- even then.” He stops, takes a deep breath, and studiously avoids Harry’s eyes. “I haven’t been attracted to someone since my husband. And even when I met my husband, it wasn’t like this.” 

Jack slips around Harry and walks out at a fast clip. Harry just sinks back into his chair, his sketchbook on his lap. “Oh.” 

The monosyllabic sound is small and defeated in the office space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FFC 2/3 prompt: AU: Vampires!


	5. 2/4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Harry make amends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for a little Jack POV. :)

Jack has never been the brooding type. Even when faced with his terminal diagnosis, he liked to think he’d handled himself with all the tenacity he’d shown the rest of his life. Then again, the meds he’d been taking at the end seem to have clouded his memories of that time. It was probably a lot worse for Nathan. Jack had been spared seeing himself slowly decay. Nathan probably still remembered him that way.

He hopes not. He hopes Nathan remembers the good.

Anyway, he’s not the brooding type. Which is why he’s definitely not pacing the living room of the brownstone he and Nathan rented. He shouldn’t have walked out on Harry. God, Harry has barely been here for 48 hours, and he just left him all out on his own? What if he gets lost? What if-

No. He’ll be okay. He’s an adult. He’ll be okay.

But he still should have stayed, because walking away from conversations never does any good. He ceases pacing, his eyes lingering on the engagement picture of he and Nathan in the Boston Public Garden. It’s the oldest cliche, the whole “he would want you to be happy, he’d want you to move on” spiel. And hasn’t he granted Nathan exactly that? He feels no resentment in his soul toward Nathan or his new wife, Sandra, or their beautiful child. He knows Nathan would feel the same about him.

Still, he remembers that first date with Nathan. A blind date, one of those ‘our friends only have two mutual queer friends so they’d probably like each other’ situations that happened to actually work out. Hell, better than work out. He rubs the spot where his wedding band used to sit. He’d willed the faint tan line, the indentation away years ago, but he still feels the ghost of it on his finger. He and Nathan had had nothing like this instant attraction he feels with Harry, but they’d had mutual experience to build on, a group of common friends, and were heading off into the same time of their lives - in other words, it had all just...well, clicked. Worked itself out. Like it had been meant. Nathan had never- never ignited the _fire_ in his gut he feels when he’s around Harry.

Taking a deep breath, knowing what he needs to do, he starts to walk toward the entrance way, when he's stopped by a knock on his door.

He’s somehow not surprised at all to see Harry standing there when he opens it.

There’s a moment of silence, hanging with anticipation. And then Harry takes a small breath and starts to speak. “Did you know that Bram Stoker’s Dracula might have had economic connotations? Specifically, um, _Count_ Dracula symbolized the parasitic upper class. You know, like, stuff Marx was concerned with.”

Jack blinks, watching Harry’s face, which is begging forgiveness already. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Tell me more,” he says, with a small smile and a hand gesturing Harry in.

Harry flushes, his cheeks going a deep pink that is so fucking appealing Jack has to take a moment. “That’s all I memorized, actually. All I have to offer.”

An offering, a sign of apology and forgiveness and interest, perhaps. At least in mending the rift. “I accept it, then, as it is. Please, do come in, though.”

Harry steps inside, taking in the brownstone with wide eyes. “This is...really nice.”

“I was a teacher, but Nathan was basically my sugar daddy. Worked in stocks. We couldn’t afford to buy it, but at least we could afford the rent.”

Harry turns back as Jack lets the door close. “I’m sorry, Jack. I jumped to conclusions, and it’s just- overwhelming, you know?”

Jack walks past Harry, nodding his head, bringing him toward the living room. “I understand, and I’m sorry, too. I should have explained better what would happen in the dream. I should have communicated better beforehand. I should have remembered what it’s like to be freshly here.”

He conjures up a glass of water for himself after they’ve settled on the couch, making an empty one for Harry, too. Harry taps the glass in his fingers, before giving a little smile, and filling it with chocolate milk. He likes that about Harry, his little indulgences. “I still think I’m dreaming. I mean, not all the time. But sometimes, I pinch myself. It doesn’t hurt, though, but I figure that’s just the magic.”

“You’d be right. We can’t get hurt here, unless it’s part of the Quirk. It’s a benefit.”

“I’ll say,” Harry responds with a laugh, pressing his fingers through his short dirty-blond locks.  He pulls his leg up on the couch, tucking it under him to face Jack more squarely as he sips at his chocolate milk. He smiles a little, just a quick upturn of lips that makes Jack ache. “So, should we address the elephant in the room?” He blushes again. “The attraction one?”

Jack leans against the arm rest, letting his bare foot slide near Harry’s without actually touching. He can feel the heat radiating from Harry’s limb, though. “I- I must admit, Harry, I’ve never felt this way about anyone I’ve met here. Not that I’ve been trying to _meet_ someone. But the minute I saw you laying in that hospital bed-”

“Maybe it _was_ the hospital bed. I’ve seen a ton of families, friends, lovers-” His eyes flick up at Jack’s, then away quickly. “-make amends in hospital rooms. They’re rife for drama.”

Jack smiles a little. “If that were the case, I wouldn’t want to kiss you right now.” He does his own looking down, away, but then works up the courage to meet Harry’s eyes again. Harry hasn’t moved, but his foot creeps a little closer to Jack’s.

“I’d like to kiss you too, sometime,” Harry murmurs, then laughs at himself. “‘Like’ doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Jack sets his water aside, pushing away from the arm of the couch and scooting into Harry’s space. Harry’s just as quick to set his milk down, and they meet somewhere in the middle, their legs tangled in a way Jack doesn’t want to worry about as his lips slide over Harry’s. It’s rough and yet, somehow sweet, the way Harry’s lips part under his, the way Jack pulls at his shirt to get him closer, the way the short stubble of Harry’s perpetual 5 o’clock shadow rubs against his beard.

 _“Jack,”_ Harry groans against his lips, making a fist in Jack’s button down like he’s clinging for dear life.

Jack’s heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest. He doesn’t remember ever feeling like this, like he wants to rut against Harry’s body until he’s spent. Like he wants to take Harry to bed and love on him for hours. Like he wants candlelight and softness and the harsh brightness of fluorescents and hard, fast sex, and he can’t decide between the two.

When Harry pulls back, his cheeks are flushed a bright red, his pupils dilated, his lips swollen. Feeling swells in Jack’s stomach, the kind that has him smoothing his hand out, running it along Harry’s body, and finally away, back to his own. He presses a chaste kiss to Harry’s cheek.

Without protest, Harry sits back on his haunches, picks his glass back up and presses it against his hot cheek, grinning at Jack. “That was good.”

“Yeah,” Jack replies, surprised at how low and breathy his voice is. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s whole face is beaming, radiant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for today was Blind Date! If you blinked, you missed it. I'm not sure I really rose to the prompt on this one, but I promise this was all written today completely off the cuff!
> 
> Finally, a kiss!
> 
> Also, my face casts for Jack and Harry: Jack is 'played by' Rahul Kohli of iZombie/Supergirl fame, and Harry is 'played by' Shawn Ashmore from X-Men.


	6. prompt 2/5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Jack guide a dream for a toddler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for major typos, I'm posting right before bed.

When Jack meets him to walk to work their next shift, his hand lingers by Harry’s side, until Harry finally clues in and slides their fingers together. Harry’s decided that his favorite Jack expression is the bashful one he gets when Harry does little stuff like this. He wants to make Jack have that expression as often as possible. 

Jack leans in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. After The Kiss yesterday, they had continued to chill out on the couch, reading and sketching and generally enjoying each other’s presence. They’re back to their easy companionship now, the small bump in the road brought on by miscommunication smoothed out. Their fingers stay interwoven all the way to their cubicle, even as they talk of inconsequential, minor details. Harry feels like he wants to drink in every little facet of Jack’s personality. 

Fletcher catches them mid-conversation, sipping their morning coffee and tea, chattering about nothing as they settle into their places in the office. Outside, there’s snow softly falling, but Fletcher’s dress is all spring. It swishes and flutters and reveals little strips of skin that get covered again before one can really focus on them, all deep purples and pinks. It reminds Harry a bit of his parents’ rhododendron bushes. 

“I’m shifting a case to you two. Helena and Bobbi have a lot on their plate right now, working with a majority teenaged caseload. You know how that gets, Jack.” She slips a paper file onto the desk in front of Jack and Harry, then lingers, looking at the two of them. After a short sigh, she taps her purple ombre nails against her tablet. “Listen, I know you two are consenting adults, and most people need social interaction to help boost their creativity. Just- don’t make me have to get involved, okay?” 

Harry’s eyes go wide as he looks back at Jack. Jack gives a short, professional nod, but by the time Harry looks back around, Fletcher is gone again. “What was that about?”

“You know how you accused me of taking advantage of you being a newbie by taking you into a sex dream?” Jack smiles sardonically when Harry nods. “Well, let’s just say that if I’d been someone else, you wouldn’t have been wrong. It’s a bit of a trope around here, partners falling for each other. And sometimes, with creative people, the fallout is...large.” 

Harry frowns. “But not you.” 

“No. Like I said, not since- well, not since coming here. You’re a first for me, Harry.” Jack’s voice is quiet, self-effacing. It makes Harry lean in and slowly brush his lips over Jack’s. 

“Let’s try not to fall out, then.” Harry offers him a little smile, because he knows he can’t guarantee what he’s saying. 

**_Why did it take dying to find you?_ **

They’re not in a dream, so of course the question goes unanswered. Harry doesn’t need it answered anyway. 

Jack swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and leans back to examine their new charge. He pulls a picture out of a small boy, no more than three or four. “Aww,” Jack lets out, seemingly involuntarily. “Palmer. Three years old, lives in California. Currently into playing heroes and villains. Current anxiety dream: separation from mother. Yeah, I hear you there, kid. Cortisol levels, low, good, he’s had a good day.” Jack leans back into his chair. “Okay, so with toddlers we tend to just want to foster creativity, or reinforce good morals. What do you think we should give Palmer?” 

Harry looks over the paper himself, trying to imagine what he dreamt about when he was three. “You should be his sidekick, and I’ll be the super villain you guys are chasing down.” 

Jack nods. “Yeah, that’s great. It’ll appeal to the black and whiteness of toddler morals, and foster creativity by playing make believe. And it’s fairly abstract. You’ll notice toddlers don’t really have a handle on their dreamscapes. They’re challenging that way. Fun, though, too.” 

Harry grins, holding up his watch. “Tap in three, two, one-”

 

The dream has the same chaos Harry felt when he was breaking down in his apartment a few days ago and he couldn’t hold onto the image of his place. Shapes barely stay static and colors bleed into each other in a continuous rainbow. Even Jack and Harry aren’t concrete here. Palmer, though, stands like a bright beacon - a testament to the strong self-actualization that toddlers possess. He grins up at them, and Harry immediately makes himself small so Palmer doesn’t feel outsized. He sees Jack do the same. 

He takes in Palmer’s bright face, looks over at Jack with his own grin, and creates a half-mask to press over his face. “Catch me if you can, Palmer!” 

It’s so ridiculous, trying to navigate the toddler’s dream. It’s also, Harry’s fairly sure, the most fun he’s had since before he died. He runs as fast as he can, which, with dream magic, is quite simple to pull off. Palmer and Jack trail behind him, Palmer sending towering stacks of foam blocks in his way that Harry must push through. It’s easy and fun to lose himself in the abstractness of it all. 

He’s pushing past a blob of blue goo when Palmer tackles him to the ground, laughing maniacally as he wrestles handcuffs onto his wrists. “Oh no, you got me!”

“You’re goin’ to jail, meanie!” Palmer declares proudly. 

With an exaggerated groan, Harry falls into the blue goo, the picture of defeat. He hides his grin from Palmer and taps himself out of the dream. 

He’s still giggling a little to himself when Jack appears in the chair beside him once again. “Okay, that was fucking fun. Can we just always do toddlers? Adults are way too complicated.” 

Laughing, Jack leans back, kicking his feet up on top of the desk. “Sadly, they try to distribute the toddlers evenly or we’d all be fighting over them. Although thank god Fletcher deals with distribution. I’m never getting into management.” 

Harry wipes at his eyes, still grinning. “I haven’t- I mean. It’s been cool, yeah? And obviously I’ve loved meeting you. But that was… it’s like that first shift at the hospital, when that mom hugged me.” 

“Like it just feels right.” Jack rubs over his own t-shirt, right over his heart, as he meets Harry’s eyes.

“It just feels right,” Harry agrees, nodding, sober. They let the pleasant quiet sit between them for a few moments before they both turn to look for their next clients. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for 2/5 was: handcuffs!


	7. Prompt 2/6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack helps Harry deal with a stressful day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really short one today, guys (well, 700 words ish short). 
> 
> Had an awful day at the dentist, and also getting weird medical test results, and I'm spent.

In life, Jack hadn’t been much of a cook. Even now, the only thing that makes it bearable is the not having to shop for all of the ingredients. He has a thing, though, for preparing the mise en place. Maybe it’s that he can will the counter in Harry’s kitchen to the perfect height, and anyway, his back doesn’t ache. Maybe it’s that his knives are perfectly sharp. Maybe it’s the soft music drifting through Harry’s apartment as Harry sits at the counter and sketches him, laughing, while he chops and cuts and snips and stirs. 

He’d invited himself over, crowding himself into Harry’s life unapologetically after Harry mentioned how weird the apartment felt without his many roommates. One glance at the sad, despondent look on Harry’s face was all it had taken to tell Harry he was coming over to make him dinner. 

Harry’s got a similar look on his face now, and Jack moves away from grating cheese to peer over his shoulder. It’s a rough sketch of a lovely woman, her eyes the same shape as Harry’s. It doesn’t take a genius to guess it’s Harry’s mother. 

“I’m worried I’ll forget them,” Harry whispers.

\----

A few hours earlier

There’s a commotion in the lobby, right outside the North America workspace. Harry’s hand tightens in his at the raised voices. He’s right to be alarmed by it - normally, the dream magic that runs Headquarters keeps everyone at a calm, even keel. Even dream magic can’t keep calm the powerful emotions that fly when memory is involved. 

“They’re have a public debate,” Jack murmurs, pulling Harry a little more closely to him, but bringing him up to the crowd so he can see.

“Debate about what?” 

Jack hums, looking around for the signage. “Ah, let’s see...um, oh, the ending of a book by someone named John Green.” 

_ “Someone _ named… oh right, popular after you died. But what do you mean, debating the ending? Like...a book club?” 

“No, like, John Green’s not dead yet, so all we have to go on is people’s memories, and it turns out that A, people have different memories about how, um-” He reads the sign again. “-The Fault in Our Stars ended, and B, people tend to be pretty protective of those memories. They’ll have a series of public debates, and then anyone who wants to vote on the matter can. The vote will decide how the library’s copy of the book ends, for those people that have never read it.” 

“That seems…” Harry frowns. “Do we really lose our memories of all that stuff?” 

“You’d be amazed. It helps when the author dies. They can go through and cement things. But yeah, it happens.” 

The frown sticks to Harry’s face, and Jack leans in to kiss him on the cheek, pulling him away. “C’mon, let’s go do dinner.” 

\------------

He wants to reassure Harry that he’ll never forget, but he’s seen it happen to other Muses, experienced it happening himself. “Write down everything you can. Talk of her, or of both of them. Keep them alive, and you won’t forget, okay? I’ll help.” 

Harry nods, brushing wetness from his eye. 

Jack sets Harry’s sketchbook down and leads him over to the couch. They settle in each other’s arms, Harry taking comfort from Jack, his head laying on Jack’s chest as Jack strokes his back. There are no words right now that will soothe; it’s just more of the grieving process Harry must work through. Still, Jack’s glad he decided to invite himself over. Harry shouldn’t have to go through it alone. 

Jack rests his chin in Harry’s hair, his fingers lingering at the wisps of dirty blond that grace Harry’s nape. Harry’s eyes close, his breath evening out, his tears drying. He’ll be okay. They’ll be okay. 

After a few moments, or minutes, or an hour, Jack isn’t really sure, Harry reaches for Jack’s hand and presses a kiss to his palm. “Will you stay with me tonight?” 

Jack brushes a kiss over Harry’s forehead as their fingers link. “I’d love to stay.” 

He can feel Harry’s small smile against his chest, and manages one of his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was "nonverbal communication"


	8. prompt 2/7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack's a cuddler.

He thinks it’s Harry who first turns to him in the night, but Jack’s too sleepy to be able to tell. They wake together in the morning, wrapped all in each other, and suddenly Jack knows he’s going to have trouble sleeping by himself again. It had taken a few years after death to get used to sleeping without Nathan after years of it. 

Jack’s resigned to himself that he’s a cuddler, and he knows it. Luckily, it seems Harry is the same way. The next day is filled with little touches, caresses, kisses. At one point, while looking over the same client folder, Harry’s hand rests at the nape of Jack’s neck, playing with his hair, and Jack hasn’t felt this steady in years. It’s like his heart is learning how to bloom again. He knows he’s helping Harry through his grief, too, although in a more hands-on way than Fletcher would prefer. 

But despite their cuddling, their kisses remain chaste. Nothing like the thundering, overwhelming need of their first kiss. Yet Jack can feel it simmering beneath his own surface; can almost feel it skittering under Harry’s skin. By some unspoken agreement, they’ve decided to take things a day at a time. 

And today, apparently, is  _ the _ day, the way Harry keeps eyeing him on their way back to the North American corridor. 

“Your place or mine?” Harry asks, a huge grin on his face. They’d just had a particularly positive and productive day dreaming. 

“I honestly have no preference.” 

Harry bites his lip. “My place, then. You look so fucking sexy in that eyeliner.”

He’s barely gotten through Harry’s front door when Harry pushes him against it, pushes their bodies together until Jack can feel the heat in every point of contact. Harry’s smaller than him, more compactly built for all that his lean body hides the strength to lift patients from gurney to bed and back. The height difference means Harry goes up on his toes, just a little, leaning even more weight into Jack’s body, to prepare to kiss him. His lips hover before Jack’s. “I’m reading this right, right?” 

“Are you reading that I very much want to have sex with you?” Jack asks dryly, letting his lips tip up in a sardonic smile. 

“Indeed.” Harry mocks his posh British accent. He conjures a condom between his fingers, then looks between it and Jack. “STIs a thing at Headquarters?” 

“Healthcare’s too expensive, so they just made us impervious,” Jack jokes, though he chokes a little when Harry tosses the foil packet away and pulls him into a fierce kiss, his breath rushing too quickly in pleasure. 

“I wanna blow you,” Harry murmurs against his lips. “May I blow you? I wanna watch those pretty eyes watch me take you down whole.” 

_ Harry, surprise dirty talker. _ “I, uh, enthusiastically consent,” he manages, walking them back toward the couch. 

Harry reverses their positions, pushing Jack down onto the couch, then slipping between his legs. “Hand me a pillow?” 

His entire attention centered on Harry between his legs, Jack makes one appear from thin air and hands it to Harry, who laughs and shakes his head as he gets comfortable on it. He runs his palms over Jack’s slack-clad knees, smoothing over them before working his way up Jack’s inner thighs on his exploration. 

“I can’t wait to get you naked,” he whispers, those delightful fingers massaging their way upward. 

“The feeling is very, very mutual.” 

“But for now…” Harry grins, winking at him, letting his fingers rest on the button for Jack’s slacks. “We still good?” 

“Very good,” Jack manages, guiding Harry’s fingers through the motion of the unbuttoning and unzipping. He sighs in relief when Harry finally closes around his cock and pulls him out. 

Harry hums, his eyes on the head of Jack’s dick, thumb rubbing the pearlescent precum over the tip. “You are so fucking gorgeous.” 

Jack runs his fingers through Harry’s short hair, and Harry’s eyes flick up to his. He holds Jack’s gaze as he slowly closes his lips around the tip of Jack’s cock. His tongue swirls there, and Jack feels his dick jump in Harry’s hand. Harry looks so gorgeous, his lips wrapped around Jack, and Jack wants nothing more than to return the favor as soon as he’s able. For now, he cups Harry’s head as Harry slowly descends on his cock, bringing his fingers up to meet his lips. The pressure is perfect, the wet heat of Harry’s mouth amazing. 

“So fucking gorgeous,” Jack mumbles, his hips stuttering, his cock trying to chase that heat as Harry pulls back. 

Harry lets out a little hum, his lips curving up just a little at the edges as he bobs back down. Their eyes lock, and Jack groans, pulling him closer. 

He’s going to drown in Harry’s blue-green eyes. He’s going to die again, somehow. He’s going to be blown straight into the Core and it’s multi-dimensional light and head to wherever Muses go from here. He hasn’t felt a connection like this for too long. 

“I’m going to- Har, babe, I’m going to come, can I- do you want-” 

Harry pulls off, leaving his cock wet and shiny. “You can come in my mouth, Jackie,” he says, a twinkle in his eyes, his voice rough. 

Jack grunts as Harry goes down on him again, squeezing his fingers rhythmically and timing it all perfectly. It’s only a matter of minutes before he comes, watching Harry swallow it with a serene look on his face. His nerves light up all over his body; coming during Jack Alone Time has nothing on Harry’s mouth. Euphoria glows through him, not unlike how he feels when he reenergizes his creativity. 

It takes a little maneuvering, but then Harry’s up straddling his lap, his cock out and Jack’s hand fisted around it. Harry leans forward, kissing Jack hard, sharing his taste. He rips at the buttons of Jack’s shirt and runs his hands up the warm skin of his stomach, up his chest, to bury his fingers in the hair there. 

Jack pulls up, tugging hard at Harry’s cock, slick with precum, and biting down on Harry’s earlobe. “Come for me, Harry, come on, babe, you can do it.” 

With a final grunt, Harry comes all over Jack’s chest, in white ropes that warm his skin. With a huge sigh, Harry collapses, smearing the mess between them, but completely engulfing Jack in a hug. Jack takes the time to rubs his hands over Harry’s back, whispering praise and love words in Harry’s ear even as their breath slows. 

With a scrunch of his nose, Jack wills the cum away, and Harry’s laugh rumbles against his body. “Okay, that’s way more convenient. Thank you, powers that be.” 

Jack laughs, pressing a kiss to Harry’s hair and settling them back farther into the couch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/7 prompt is: Vanilla
> 
> And I figured after taking October, November, and December all to write kink for kinktober, I'd write some good old fashioned vanilla - but still sexy - sex.


	9. Prompt 2/9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fletcher helps Harry and Jack check an item off Harry's bucket list.

“No, no, I don’t believe you.” Harry snorts, wiping at his streaming eyes as he cuddles with Jack on the couch. 

“What?” Jack looks playfully defensive, a small smile trying to peek out of his stern face. 

“You’re telling me, never-” 

“Never! Not once.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Harry repeats with astonishment. “You grew up in London.  _ London. _ And you’ve never been farther than that. London’s like, what, hours from France?” 

“I was a  _ kid, _ I didn’t exactly have control over my movements.” 

“Dude, in Oregon you can drive for six hours and still be in the same state, let alone another country.” 

“Kid. Child. As in, I went where my parents went.” 

“When you were in Boston, did you ever take the train to New York City?” 

“Well, yes, of course, it’s  _ New York.” _

“It’s  _ Paris!  _ The Louvres. The Champs Elysee. The  _ food.” _ With a laugh disguised as a frustrated huff, Harry leans back against the couch. “I never got to go either, you know. But that’s more acceptable given the whole 12 hours of flights between Portland and Paris.” 

To his surprise, Jack pops up from the couch, readjusting his clothing with just a thought. “C’mon. I’ve got something to show you. Bring your sketchbook.” 

Without a second thought of doubt, Harry makes sure he looks presentable, too, before tucking his sketchbook under his arm. Jack catches his free hand, leading him out the door of his apartment. He closes it, then just stands outside the door. 

The simple white door to Harry’s apartment disappears, and in its place, a heavy oak door with an ornate glass window. Jack knocks, and a few moments later, Fletcher appears, wearing yet another couture gown, this one black with white pearls encrusting the bodice. She looks a bit like she could be walking the red carpet at the first Oscars, with her - now blonde - hair rolling in soft curls down to her shoulders, pinned back at her temples. 

“Jack, Harry,” she acknowledges, giving them a small nod, and it takes a moment for Harry to realize that what seems off is the fact that her ever-present tablet is, well, not ever-present. 

“Fletcher, I hate to intrude, but- Harry’s never seen Paris.” Jack says this as if it’s the entire explanation Fletcher needs. 

Apparently, it is, because Fletcher’s smile grows wide, and she opens her door to them. “Well, come in then, come in.” 

Fletcher’s place is surprisingly small - just a studio apartment, but kept neatly, and well decorated. It’s the view that draws Harry in. He walks to the window without a backwards glance, taking in the cityscape, the Eiffel Tower holding court over Paris at night, lights twinkling. 

“You  _ live _ in Paris?” 

Fletcher comes next to him to watch the city, too. He can feel Jack hovering somewhere behind his back. 

“I love it here,” she answers simply. 

“But we live in the North America wing.” 

She gives him a small smile, her gaze distant. “I studied abroad in Paris during college. This is the flat I shared with a roommate. I’m from New Mexico, though, and that’s where I died. I could have chosen to go elsewhere, but…” She looks over the city. “I felt like I could bring a certain something to the dreams of North Americans. People who’ve never been here.” She smiles at Harry again. “I was trying to save up to move back here when I died.” 

“What did you study? Fashion design?” 

Fletcher laughs, a deep, throaty sound that makes Harry feel warm and comforted. “No, you’d think, though, huh? No, I studied the usual. French, French history, art history, et cetera.” 

She leans over, pulling at the bottom of the window to open it, and Harry helps her. It smells like city, of course, but different than Portland. Bread, maybe, and flowers. “If you want to visit, go ahead. I can’t promise all the streets will be there - my memories aren’t entirely concrete - but I try to at least keep up the tourist sites for visitors.” 

Harry realizes belatedly that there’s a fire escape outside the window that will lead them down into the street. He turns back to Jack. “Have you done this before?” 

Jack grins. “I haven’t, actually. I guess I was waiting for you.” 

Holding his hand, Harry starts climbing out the window.

“Wait,” Fletcher interrupts, waving her hand. Instantly, the sun is in the sky again, and night has gone. “Paris in springtime, my favorite. Everything will be in bloom. Perfect for sketching.” 

Jack’s eyes meet Harry’s.  _ Perfect for loving, too. _ It passes unspoken between them, but Harry’s cheeks heat a little as they climb down. 

“Merci beaucoup,” Harry calls up when they’ve reached the street, pulling from his distant memories of high school French classes. 

“Au revoir.” Fletcher waves from the window, making a beautiful picture framed there. As Harry watches, she looks away from them, resting her head on her chin, taking in the sight of the city once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/9 prompt: "I don't believe you." 
> 
> The 2/8 prompt was "Crossover: put today’s characters in the world of the next pairing in your list."   
> Which, btw, was my prompt *I* suggested. I can't believe I did myself dirty like that. If anyone has any ideas how I could translate that to this universe, I'd take them. :)
> 
> Still struggling with some mental health stuff so another short one today.


	10. Prompt 2/10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Jack must conquer a nightmare together. 
> 
> CW: The nightmare revolves around a gun, and the theme of a mass shooting. I'm not adding a tag for them because of course the whole story isn't about that, but please be advised that that happens in this chapter.

“Ooo, Laryssa, I don’t think you’ve met her yet.” Jack pushes a file across the table to him. 

“Laryssa Bigoni, age 23, just graduated from college a year ago… currently  _ super _ stressed out, geez, look at those cortisol levels,” Harry reads aloud, frowning at Jack. “There’s no way this isn’t going to be a stress dream about… online dating, apparently. Ouch, yeah, Laryssa, I feel you there.” 

“I’m so fucking glad I didn’t have to deal with online dating,” Jack adds with a groan, leaning back in his chair. 

“Like, not at all?” 

“I met Nathan through friends, like I said.” Jack’s cheeks darken. “I wasn’t, uh, exactly looking, before that.” 

_ Hence why you’ve been dead for 11 years and yet I’m your first guy...thing...since you died. Hmm.  _ “It’s hard out there. Good guys don’t just stumble into your lap often.” Harry rolls his chair closer to Jack’s, leaning in to brush a kiss over his cheek. “Trust me, looking online can be a nightmare. Or, it can lead to really good dates.” 

It’s Harry’s turn to blush, and Jack grins, poking him in the side. “Oh, I see, I see.” 

“So how are we going to help Laryssa lower her cortisol levels without making her scared of online dating?” 

Jack temples his fingers in front of his lips, tapping them in a slow, contemplative rhythm. “There’s a mode of dreaming, more of a spectator mode for the dreamer. Not all people can do it, kind of like how not all people can lucid dream. But essentially, we both go in as the players, and Laryssa watches. Her anxiety will try to turn the dream sideways on us, so we’ll have to be quick on our feet, so to speak.” 

“The goal being, to get through a pleasant date, come what may?” 

“Exactly.” 

Harry flashes Jack a smile. “Well, it’s no springtime picnic in Paris, but I suppose I’ll go on a date with you. I  _ guess.” _

Jack grins back. “Tap in three...two...one…” 

 

As soon as Harry lands in the dream, he realizes Laryssa has cast him as herself, perhaps because her mind knows Harry’s done this before, felt this before. All of the questions roll through his head:  _ What if he doesn’t look like his photo? What if he tries something I don’t want? What if he’s too pushy? What if… _ Taking a steadying breath, Harry wills himself to push the anxiety aside and walk into the busy, public coffee shop he’s meeting Jack in. 

He scans the tables, but there’s no sign of Jack yet, so he just hops in line to get a latte. 

“Harry?” 

Harry whirls in line, finding Jack right behind him, and feels a flush of relief that yes, he does look just like his photos after all.  _ Of course he does,  _ Harry thinks. It’s weird, having Laryssa’s thoughts imprinting themselves over his own. “And you must be Jack,” he says, completely unnecessarily, holding out his right hand to shake. 

Jack’s palm is smooth in his, strong in a way that’s not trying to show off his strength. “Hi. Oh, um-” Jack points ahead, where Harry’s the next person in line and the barista is waiting for his order. 

There’s something endearing about the awkward way Jack deals with him, a ghost of a hand on his back like he wants to touch Harry, but won’t yet. The way he insists on paying for their coffees. The way he leaps up to get Harry’s before Harry has even processed that the barista is calling out his order. He sets the latte in front of Harry before taking a sip of his own tea. 

They make small talk in that way one does in dreams; Harry’s fairly sure it’s happening, but he has no idea what Jack is saying to him, nor does he remember what he’s saying to Jack. He just gets the general impression of Jack’s niceness, his self-deprecating jokes. Harry wants to curl toward him like a flower does to the sun. 

There’s a commotion at the front of the shop, suddenly, and Jack’s eyes go wide. 

_ That would be Laryssa’s anxiety kicking in, _ Jack says to him telepathically before Harry finally makes out the source of the commotion: a gunman - robber? - waving a gun around and telling everyone to get down. 

_ We have to get out of here. _

Jack’s voice is cool and collected in his head, but Harry’s stuck in panic mode. He barely reacts as Jack pushes him to the floor and they start shimmying behind the counter, chaos around them. Harry feels like his heart is beating out of his chest. 

**_Why is_ ** **_this_ ** **_her anxiety? I thought she was nervous about the date._ **

_ She is, but anxiety takes many forms. Getting caught in a mass shooting is something at the top of everyone’s mind - at least in the US. No surprise it would be the avenue for her anxiety now. Come on, I think we can get to the kitchen and get out.  _

**_But, everyone else-_ **

_ Laryssa’s mind will fill in their fates. We have to show her how to survive.  _

The gunman’s hot on their heels; Harry hasn’t looked back, but he can just tell. They’re not going to make it, and even though Harry  _ knows _ nothing bad can happen to him in a dream, his mind still freaks out, his eyes streaming as he watches the gunman point his pistol at Jack’s chest. 

And then a frying pan materializes in his hand, and he’s swinging, and it clangs against the gunman’s head with a satisfying thunk. The gunman crumples to the floor, leaving Harry and Jack standing there, staring at each other with wide eyes. Jack moves first, pulling Harry into his arms and running his hands all over his body as if he’s searching for gun wounds, but there’s nothing, miraculously. Maybe not so miraculously considering it’s all a dream. 

**_It’s all a dream,_ ** Harry repeats to himself, not realizing he’s transmitting it to Jack. 

_ That’s right, baby. All a dream. You’re okay. It’s okay. _

With that, Jack taps them out of the dream at once. 

 

Harry shocks back awake in his chair, gasping for breath. Immediately, Jack is on him, his arms surrounding him as they had done in the dream. “It’s okay. We’re out now, and Laryssa’s cortisol levels look normal again, and everything’s going to be okay,” he keeps murmuring in Harry’s ear. 

“That was-” Harry shudders.

“Intense,” Jack fills in. 

“Yeah.” Harry’s not very surprised to find his eyes are wet, and he pushes tears away with the tips of his fingers. Jack’s lips ghost over his wet cheek, his forehead, his hair, soothing. 

“I’d say it’s not always like that, but you know that by now. Still, it’s not always that bad. And you got Laryssa out in the end. You did a really good job.” 

Harry takes a deep, shaky breath, returning Jack’s hug. “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to do another tonight.” 

Jack sighs. “I understand, but hear me out. If you don’t go in again, it’s going to be harder to do tomorrow.” 

“Getting back up on the horse,” Harry whispers. 

“Exactly. And it looks like Palmer’s having a good night. Let’s go hang out with the toddler, play with some bright colors. I’ll let you handcuff  _ me _ this time, eh?”

Harry smiles, despite the fact that his heart is still thundering from the nightmare. “That...doesn’t sound half bad.” 

“Okay. In a minute.” Jack doesn’t move away from Harry’s arms, just continuing to hold him and press light kisses to his skin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/10 prompt: "Au: characters meet online"


	11. Prompt 2/11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry can't sleep, but Jack has a solution. 
> 
> Catching up! This is the prompt for 2/11.

Frustrated, Harry turns his pillow over to the cool side and punches it into submission for good measure. He tries not to huff too loudly - Jack is asleep on the other side of his bed - but he just keeps picturing a gun being leveled at Jack’s chest, and every time he pictures it, he steps that much farther away from sleep. 

He must not have been quiet enough, though, because Jack shifts, wrapping an arm around him, his fingers playing over Harry’s t-shirt-covered stomach. His head slots in next to Harry’s as he eases himself up behind him as big spoon. “Can I help?” Jack’s voice is quiet, slurred with sleep. 

The simple words make Harry’s heart thump in his chest. He scootches back just a little, wanting to lose himself in Jack’s warmth. “No, go back to sleep, it’s okay.” 

Jack’s lips run under his ear, instead. “Tell me, love.” 

There goes Harry’s heart again. “It’s just, what’s the point of all of this magic if I can’t just...will myself to sleep?” 

“The thing is, we don’t _need_ sleep, technically,” Jack replies, and his voice sounds slightly more awake, now. His lips continue torturing the skin of Harry’s neck. 

Harry holds back a shiver, his hand coming down to grasp Jack’s fingers in his. “Right, but it’s still frustrating.” 

“So fucking frustrating.” Jack sounds like he means it, although sometimes it’s hard to tell with the dry wit. 

But he must mean it, because he stops his caresses and squeezes Harry tightly to him, instead. “It’s okay to still be thinking about the nightmare.” 

“It was so real.” 

“Luckily, it can’t be, not for us. You’ll never lose me that way.” 

“Yeah, but that’s logic, and whose brain listens to logic in the middle of the night?” 

“Mmm, fair.” 

Harry turns slightly in Jack’s arms. “Pathos, on the other hand. That makes sense right now.” He presses a hand to Jack’s chest, pushing him back down to the bed.

“Oh?” Jack’s smile is sly in the moonlight. 

With a sigh - a much less frustrated one this time - Harry leans in, slotting his mouth over Jack’s and sinking into a deep kiss. Jack’s warm, and Harry melts into him, his hand sliding over Jack’s heart, then taking a detour to his nipple. “Since we don’t need sleep…” 

“Mmmhmm…” 

Harry’s the one torturing Jack’s neck, now, sucking a mark under his ear as he continues to rub his chest. “What do you like?” 

“I like you,” Jack mumbles, his voice slurring for an altogether different reason now. 

Harry snorts against Jack’s neck. “No, I mean. Sex-wise. Top? Bottom? Both? Neither?” 

“Why, Mr. Harry, are you trying to have your way with me?” 

Harry leans his chin on the hand he has on Jack’s chest, rolling his eyes even as he looks at Jack adoringly. “Only if that’s what you want.” 

The hardness of Jack’s cock pokes Harry in the leg then, and Jack wraps his arms around Harry to bring him closer. “The thing about Muses is we can do whatever we want to our bodies. I could just...will myself all stretched and wet for you.”

A lube bottle appears in Harry’s hand, as Jack smiles wickedly. 

“I much prefer, though, when my partner stretches me, slowly, patiently, thoroughly.” His lips capture Harry’s, breaking into Harry’s surprise, even as his heart keeps thundering. “That is, if you want to fuck me.” His legs slip open invitingly. 

Harry moans Jack’s name, pressing one last kiss to Jack’s lips before pushing back to work his way down Jack’s body. “What did you say before? Enthusiastic consent? Yes. Yes please. All the yes.” He eyes Jack’s pajamas, his own. “Does that slowness extend to clothes, or can I just get rid of these?” 

In a scrunch of Jack’s nose, their clothes are gone, and Harry’s thigh is pressed to Jack’s now, their skin touching, warming. With a hum of approval, Harry leans in, taking one of Jack’s nipples in his mouth and bringing it to peak. He laves over the pebbled texture of the dark brown peak, using his fingers on the other as Jack squirms below him. 

If Jack wants slow, he’ll give Jack slow. Patient. Thorough. 

He makes his way down the softness of Jack’s stomach, pressing kisses down the course brown hair of his happy trail. When he gets to Jack’s cock, though, he skirts around it with a sly wink up at Jack, kissing the crease of his hip instead. 

Silently, he moves Jack’s legs apart, bending Jack’s knees to get the best angle. He presses kisses there, too, on the very top of his knee, which makes Jack grin, trailing all the way back down to his balls. 

Jack groans, canting his hips up, trying to get Harry’s mouth where he wants it, but Harry just presses down on Jack’s thighs, pinning him in place as he finally licks over Jack’s hole. With a gasp, Jack’s fingers are buried in his hair, but he’s not guiding. It’s more like he needs something to ground him, and Harry doesn’t mind one bit. 

No, he’s never really minded a little hair pulling. 

He throws himself back into his task, working his tongue slowly around Jack’s rim, easing the tight ring of muscle just as Jack had directed. Above him, Jack is making all sorts of delicious sounds, his fingers squeezing at Harry’s hair. Without taking his mouth from Jack, Harry finds the lube, popping the cap open and getting his finger slick. He leans back a little, meeting Jack’s eyes as he slowly pushes the finger into him. Jack stills, his eyes full of pleasure, longing, maybe love. 

He cushions his head on Jack’s thigh, alternating between watching Jack’s face in ecstasy, and his own finger disappearing inside Jack’s hole. Almost lazily, he slicks another finger and begins to ease it in, scissoring them. 

The first time he hits Jack’s prostate, Jack reacts like he’s been hit with a bolt of electricity. Keeping to Jack’s request, Harry memorizes the location and then deliberately doesn’t hit it directly again. He slides around the edges, making Jack’s hips stutter and search. When Jack seems like he’s out of his mind, as well as thoroughly stretched, Harry slicks himself up with a few strokes and positions himself between Jack’s thighs. 

Jack reaches for him immediately, and as soon as Harry slots himself to begin the press in, he complies, sinking into Jack both inside and out. Jack’s arms, legs wrap around him, their lips coming together as Harry bottoms out, his cock wrapped in the hot vise of Jack’s hole. 

“You feel so fucking good,” Jack mutters, moving his hips a little, testing the waters as it were. 

“So do you.” It’s all Harry can manage, his sweaty forehead resting against Jack’s as he squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to come two thrusts in like a teenager. 

“Harry.” 

Harry manages to open his eyes, and meet Jack’s. “Jack?”

Jack wraps his legs tighter, his hand coming down to slap lightly at Harry’s ass. “You can move now.” 

Harry snorts, then full on laughs, burying his face in Jack’s neck. He hasn’t even gotten himself together as he slowly withdraws his cock, almost letting the tip escape before slowly sliding it back in. It’s so good, torture, and Jack’s heels dig into his legs to tempt him into going faster. 

Harry’s self-control, the directive of slow, patient, thorough, is lost in the frenzy of fucking Jack for the first time, now. Getting to know his lover so perfectly takes over every last brain cell Harry can command. Considering how Jack’s hips thrust against his, he doesn’t think Jack minds the change of pace. 

He can feel his orgasm building in the base of his spine, euphoria already sending him to peak. He captures Jack’s lips, drowning out his own shout as it flashes through him, as he fills Jack with cum and shudders apart in his arms. Mindless, he reaches down to where Jack is jacking himself - ha - and helps, kissing and fucking and jacking until Jack comes messily between them. 

They keep kissing as they come down, eventually just resting their heads together, sticky and sweaty and happy. Harry conjures a warm, wet towel at the perfect temperature, cleaning up first Jack’s stomach, and then, when he pulls out, Jack’s red, puffy hole. 

“I could just will myself clean,” Jack mumbles, voice still totally fucked out. 

“I want to take care of you,” Harry offers, simply. 

Jack looks down at him, and then holds his arms out. This time, when Harry comes to him, laying his head on Jack’s chest, letting Jack stroke through his hair, this time, Harry sleeps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was "Character A can't sleep"
> 
> please forgive any major typos or if someone had too many limbs in the sex scene, my brain doesn't want to edit.


	12. Prompt 2/12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like getting back up on the horse, Harry and Jack take on another anxiety dream.

**_What the fuck, Jack!?_ **Harry mind-yells as he turns to run.

Jack links his hand with Harry’s and runs, too, glancing back over his shoulder as they push through vines and tree branches.  

_I told you anxiety manifests itself in weird ways!_

**_That’s a motherfucking T-rex,_ ** **_Jack._ **

_Yeah, well, for a certain group of millennials who saw Jurassic Park five times in the theater when they were eight… that’s not so weird. In here!_

They duck through the blobby, undefined jungle. Jack's face and body are similarly undefined in that dream-like way. Harry knows who he is of course, but their client doesn't. And Harry’s inhabiting the body of their dreamer again, a short, stout woman in her thirties, _Noelle,_ Harry belatedly remembers. Noelle, an innocent school teacher who apparently has stress dreams about all of the chase scenes from Isla Nublar.

**_Shouldn’t she be dreaming about...unruly kids or something? Surprise observation by the principal? Her school getting shut down?_ **

_Honestly, Harry, it’s like you think teachers have no lives outside of school. Here we go._

The way Jack sounds calm makes Harry grit his teeth. Sure, he can be calm, he’s probably dealt with a T-rex breaking into one of Noelle’s staff meeting dreams a million times before. The damn fool actually looks like he’s having _fun_ as they duck into a bunker and slam the door behind them.

They lean against the door, letting their chests heave as they try to work back to normal. The roar outside the bunker sounds terrifyingly close, but it’s muffled through the thick concrete. Harry relaxes, marginally, taking in his surroundings. He can’t see much into the bunker, and he finds a crank-operated flashlight in his hand as Noelle directs his body into checking out the dark space.

**_Uh, Jack, isn’t this the bunker where-_ **

A severed arm drops on his shoulder, and Noelle/Harry screams, brushing it off and letting it fall to the floor.

_Velociraptors, yup._

Jack sounds _way_ too gleeful about that.

**_You were one of those kids that knew all the dinosaur names, weren’t you?_ **

_I don’t know- Euoplocephalus_ _\- what you’re - Ankylosaurus - talking about. Psittacosaurus. Kid?_

**_You’re such a fucking dork._ **

_You love it._

**_God dammit._ **

But Harry flashes him a grin as Noelle, as they work their way through the bunker, waiting for the velociraptor jump scare they know is coming. And somehow, Harry begins to find the fun in it. If he has to help Noelle - and the rest of their clients - through these anxiety dreams, he may as well at least have a good time with his guy-boy-friend-thing while doing it.  

**_When we get out of here…_ **

_Oh, please, do take it out on my backside._

**_Don’t distract me when we’re about to get eaten by velociraptors._ **

_We’re not going to get eaten, we’re the heroes._

Jack materializes a cricket bat, holding it at the ready as Noelle/Harry sweeps another raptor-free room.

**_A cricket bat, really? How stereotypical are you?_ **

_Hey, Shaun made this cool._

**_Stop distracting me when I’m trying to tell you that after this-_ **

And there she is. The raptor leaps out of the darkness, claws glinting in the flashlight. They’re heading straight for Noelle/Harry’s body, and out of pure instinct, Harry swings the flashlight up, using it to hit the raptor on the head. The light goes out, and Harry waits for the pain of his belly being sliced open, but the next thing he hears is the crack of Jack’s cricket bat, and a pained moan as the raptor drops to the floor.

There’s another crack, this time of something being broken, and then a red flare lights up the room again. The raptor between them, Harry looks over at Jack, Noelle’s body shaking.

Telepathically, he laughs, because Jack's form has suddenly become way less amorphous and blobby. **_Why do you look like Jeff Goldblum now?_ ** 

Jack looks down at his - well, Ian Malcolm’s - body, his open shirt and sweaty chest, and grins.

_That would be our cue to leave, I think. Tap out._

 

Jack’s looking at him intently when Harry comes to in his office chair. He gets why; it’s their first anxiety dream since the one with the gun that shook Harry so badly.

Harry can’t find it in himself to be shook up now, though. “Okay, so that _was_ fun.”

Beaming at him, Jack takes his hand and brings it to his lips. “Perfect.” He rubs over Harry’s knuckles. “Hey, what were you saying we needed to talk about, after?”

Harry takes in Jack’s quizzical brow, his lovely features. “We should be boyfriends,” he blurts out, then chokes. “I mean, do you want to be my boyfriend?”

He so very rarely shocks Jack, it’s almost a pleasure to see his face now, his lips a small O, his brows high, his cheeks flushed.

“I mean-” Harry starts, in Jack’s continued silence.

“No, stop, I have an answer, just give me a sec.” Jack clasps Harry’s hand more tightly. “Yes. We _should_ be boyfriends.”

“So that means…”

“That we’re boyfriends, I guess?” Jack’s smile is bashful and so freaking adorable Harry has to lean in and kiss him sweetly.

“Cool,” he murmurs against Jack’s lips.

Jack’s smile quirks up. “Dork.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Touche. Dinosaurs are still cool though.”

“Whatever.”

“I think I might need to take it out on _your_ ass, come to think of it.” Jack leans forward, eyes full of desire.

Harry pulls Jack to him by his shirt, mouth hovering over Jack’s ear. “Don’t make any promises you can’t keep,” he whispers, nipping into Jack’s lobe.

With a growl, and a grin full of promise he looking completely intent on keeping, Jack pulls Harry up to his feet and out of the cubicle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FFC prompt 2/12 was "Dinosaurs"
> 
> This was a short one, though it didn't feel that way! I was surprised when it came out less than 1000 words because I had so much fun writing it. I love banter. :)
> 
> Also I have a snow day today, and an idea for the prompt I skipped earlier AND today's prompt, so expect some more chapters from me!


	13. Prompt 2/9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a dream with a new-to-Harry client, Harry and Jack come across a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Jack’s wearing: https://cdn.bgfashion.net/img16/DolceGabbanaSS2016_28.jpg  
> What Harry’s wearing: https://i.pinimg.com/236x/21/71/c5/2171c5363adc6af26d8fdf8d301a082c.jpg  
> What Margie’s wearing, woman on left: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ec/34/88/ec348841aef0093280881f16860943f2.jpg

“A toast.” Fletcher raises her glass, waiting on the few dozen or so other people at the dinner table to do the same. “To inspiring people. To new friends. To drama-free relationships.” She quirks a smile at Jack and Harry, seated next to each other, then over at another Muse couple, Docie and Aaron. “To the best block a manager could ask for.” She winks, raising her glass to her lips as the rest of the table says their ‘cheer’s. 

Fletcher throws a quarterly fancy dinner party for her section of the North American branch at her apartment, the table taking up practically the whole space and yet not seeming overcrowded. It’s hard for Harry to believe he’s been at Headquarters - dead - for over a month; the time has flown by, and yet, as he slips his hand in Jack’s, his moments with Jack feel like a lifetime. “Cheers,” he whispers again as he presses a kiss to Jack’s cheek before taking another sip of champagne. 

They’re all dressed in the haute couture Fletcher prefers, of course, and Jack’s looking especially elegant in a completely silk-satin suit. It’s shiny black, and covered in golden branches and birds that span his legs, his arms, over his chest. They sort of look like pajamas, but as a three-piece suit instead. Harry hasn’t been able to resist smoothing his hand over Jack’s body, or leaning in to peer into his smoky eyes all evening. 

For himself, Harry’s wearing tight black pants, a leather shirt, and a half-cloth, half-leather trench that hugs his arms. He felt self-conscious until he saw Jack admiring him with appreciation obvious in his eyes. 

Fletcher has the windows open, and there’s a small, warm breeze coming in from the Paris summer evening outside. 

When the cheers have settled down, there’s a small tinging on a glass, and all eyes turn to Margie, a Muse Harry had met just a week ago. She sets down her fork and smiles at them. Her outfit looks a bit like something that would have been high fashion a century ago, Harry muses, though it looks stunning on her, the high lace collar elongating her neck elegantly. 

“Fletcher, my dear, this is a lovely party, as always,” she starts, her voice low, throaty. She doesn’t speak loudly, but Harry’s fairly sure he could hear a pin drop in the room regardless. The rest of the Muses sit at the edge of their seat in anticipation, as if they know what’s coming. 

“I’ve decided to move on,” Margie murmurs, and there’s a sagging among a few of the Muses. “I’m planning on joining myself with the light tonight, after I’ve said my goodbyes, of course.” 

Somber congratulations come from around the table, and Fletcher lifts her glass again. “Margie, you’ve done incredible work. You’re a shining example for us all, and we honor your service, your commitment, and your decision.” 

The members of the table raise their glasses as one and drink again. 

Margie’s announcement puts a bit of a dampener on the mood, although many of Margie’s older friends surround her, having their last conversations with the Muse. Harry holds Jack’s hand as Jack leans down to kiss Margie’s cheek and wish her the best in whatever comes after this. 

It’s not until later, when they’re strolling through the lobby, both dressed in their normal clothes now, that Harry brings Margie up. 

Jack’s mouth turns to a small frown. “She was a nurse, too, you know. World War 1. Her hospital was shelled, unfortunately. I should have introduced you to her sooner. She has amazing stories.” 

“Still, a hundred years as a Muse. To die in war, and see humanity do it all over again, and again, and again… I understand her decision,” Harry replies. 

Jack leads him into a storefront, and suddenly they’re strolling along a riverwalk of some small town, the sun shining down on them without being too hot, the air smelling of spring. Other Muses stroll here or there, in groups, in pairs, alone. 

“What is this place?” 

Jack shrugs. “No place I ever went to when I was alive, but it’s nice. Soothing.” 

They walk in silence, letting the spring birds speak for them. “You know, when you were first talking to be about being a Muse, I don’t think it sunk in just how lucky we are.” 

Jack looks over at him curiously. “Lucky?” 

“We get to choose. Sure, neither of us got to choose our death, and maybe we would rather have stayed alive, but now that we’re here,  _ we _ get to choose.  _ We _ control when we walk into the Core, right? I can’t imagine being any luckier. That’s way better than we could have dreamed for in life.” 

Jack pauses, drawing Harry into his arms beside the river. It’s just chilly enough in the spring air, wherever they are, that Jack’s warmth feels good against his body. Jack’s beard scratches against his own stubble, and he doesn’t say anything, but the small amount of grief he’d been picking up from Jack ever since Margie’s announcement seems to ease between them. It lightens Harry’s heart, and he pulls Jack closer, swaying with him in the spring breeze, the sound of water lapping against the shore beside them. 

 

A few days later, in their office, Harry is surprised when Jack makes a little sound upon opening his file drawer for the day’s work. He’s surprised because he thought Jack only made that type of noise with  _ him. _ In  _ bed. _

“Jack?” 

Jack’s flushing with embarrassment. “Oh, um. I’ve got a new one. I mean, new to you. I mean, I’ve been-” 

It’s not like Jack to stumble over his words, so Harry pulls the file folder over curiously, opening it. He looks back at Jack, then down at the photo of the man paper-clipped to the front flap. “I see,” he says carefully, trying to hold back a grin. 

“It’s nothing! Nothing. I mean. He’s nothing.” 

“He’s  _ cute.” _

“Um, excuse me,  _ he’shotasfuck.” _

Harry can’t help laughing then, and Jack playfully punches him on the arm. “You’re adorable.” 

“I thought you’d be jealous,” Jack says, rubbing his hand over his hot face. 

Harry taps his chin thoughtfully. “I mean, I  _ could _ be jealous, I guess. But A, you’re with me, and anyone who wants to tell me you aren’t the loyalest person ever can fight me. And B, he’s alive, you’re not. You have too much integrity to break the rules and try anything sex-related with him. It’s just a  _ crush, _ Jack, and it’s adorable.” 

Jack closes the folder, setting his hand on top of it and leaning in to brush a kiss over Harry’s lips. “I don’t know why I thought I should hide from you.” 

“Well, I was older than you when you died. Wiser, you know, in those few years. It’s really hitting 30 when you’re blessed with all of life’s secrets.” 

“Cruel, Harry. Very cruel.” But Jack’s lips are tipping up, because if there’s one thing Harry knows about Jack, it’s his dark, dry humor.

“Okay, so tell me about…” Harry moves Jack’s hand, flipping the folder open again. “...Alan Garry.” He runs his finger over Alan’s handsome face, the beard that reminds Harry a little of Jack’s, the neat brown fade, the big chunky nerd glasses. 

“Alan lives in Seattle. He’s kind of like Bill Gates Jr. Not as rich, but he made an app? I don’t know, it was after I died, so I can’t really explain it. His best friend died tragically to domestic violence when he was in high school, and he’s so caring, I’ve been trying to push him to push some of that wealth towards a humanitarian goal. He takes care of others so willingly, but nothing has quite moved him to do something big like that, yet.” 

“Wow, you really do love this guy,” Harry says drily, even as he has to admit that Alan is very cute, and very sweet. “You want to put him on your hall pass list?” 

“My hall pass list?” 

“You know, the list of celebrities or people you can have sex with that your partner won’t consider cheating if you ever get the chance? Although I guess your hall pass list has to be a little limited now, since they have to be Muses. Or future Muses.” 

“Alan’s definitely a future Muse. And no, I don’t want to put him on my hall pass list, because I don’t want either of us to have one, if that’s okay.” 

Harry slides his fingers behind Jack’s neck, slipping over the short hair there. “Now look who’s being wise and mature and using their words.” He smiles a little, trying to convey comfort. “I don’t want a hall pass list either.” 

Jack leans into him, resting their foreheads together. “Okay then. We’re agreed. Look at us. Mature adults.” 

“So fucking mature.” 

“I’d say let’s go have sex to celebrate, but we do have work to do, and that wouldn’t be very mature, would it?”

“Ugh, why do you have to be so mature?” Harry laughs, pressing a final kiss to Jack’s lips before pulling back. “Come on, let’s help inspire some people. Starting with Mr. Hottie. Look at him. You kind of want to call him Sir, don’t you?” 

“Oh god, don’t put that fantasy in head.” 

“Like it wasn’t already there. Okay, so we’re trying to get Alan to start a kind of charitable organization, right?” Harry looks over the other information in Alan’s file. “Oh, look, he was in a car accident yesterday. Well, his Uber hit someone yesterday.” 

Jack frowns, pulling the file folder back to himself. “What’s an Uber?” 

“It’s a ride-sharing- it’s like a taxi you call with an app,” Harry explains quickly, rubbing a hand over Jack’s knee in acknowledgement of his death. 

“Is the person okay?” 

“Yeah, but Alan’s super stressed still, look. I mean, obviously, who wouldn’t be, after being in a car accident that injured someone?” 

“Well, let’s go in, I guess. Are you going to be okay if the anxiety dream goes toward car accident territory?”

This time it’s Jack acknowledging Harry's own demise, and he searches himself, considering. “I think so. I’ll tap out if I need to, okay?” 

Jack brushes a kiss over his forehead. “Okay. Tap in three...two..one…” 

 

It seems that Alan’s resting state is clacking away at a keyboard, even though the text is scrolling by on the screen too fast to be read, and Alan doesn’t seem to be paying attention to it anyway. 

**_So, what if we just take him to a soup kitchen or something?_ **

Jack walks up behind Alan’s desk, looking over his shoulder fondly.  _ Alan does do that kind of stuff. It’s just that he could be doing something grander. He has the resources, he has the energy, he has the spirit. He just needs the right push.  _

**_And you haven’t found it yet, huh?_ **

_ Sadly for the world, no.  _ Jack frowns, pacing Alan’s office, which is full of geeky knick-knacks. 

**_What about…_ ** Harry taps his chin, trying to get his own inspiration. 

It takes too long, apparently, because Alan’s resting state begins to morph around them without them controlling it. Alan pushes away from his desk and strides toward his office door, which opens up onto a wet, dark street, a body lying broken in the middle of the road. Harry blinks, and the scene changes, the body still there, broken, blood all around it, but this time, in the middle of a living room floor, blocked off by crime scene tape and surrounded by evidence markers. The images flicker back and forth, superimposing on each other in an endless cycle that has Alan - and therefore Jack and Harry - frozen at the doorway. 

_ That’s his friend from high school. _

**_Love, you mean._ ** In Harry’s opinion, there’s no other way to interpret the anguished look on Alan’s face. 

**_We can use this, I think, though._** While Jack stands as still as Alan, perhaps too invested in Alan’s life, with Harry’s fresh eyes, he can see the path he needs to take. The path Alan needs to take. 

He wills the dream to stabilize, landing on the image of Alan’s dead high school friend/love - without the blood. Without the police markers and the evidence tags and the broken glass. He shows Alan EMTs, senses Alan filling in their faces with EMTs he’d seen recently, perhaps for the car accident.

It’s not Harry that controls what happens now; Alan’s mind is filling in the blanks with his recent memories as his friend is cared for, loaded onto a gurney, lifted into an ambulance. They transport, dream style, in the blink of an eye, to a hospital room, where his friend is getting the help he needs. 

As Alan looks down at his friend, the other broken body from the street begins to flicker back up at him. The young man from the street lays there, engulfed in the hospital bed, looking like he’s in pain, tired, stressed. Jack and Harry can feel Alan’s anguish, but also a sense of catharsis start to bloom within him. 

“You saved him,” Harry whispers in Alan’s ear. Alan turns to look at him, but Harry’s invisible to him. 

_ That’s...that’s good. That’s good, Harry. Can you feel it?  _ Jack grins at him, and Harry can feel it, that catharsis spreading through Alan’s body. 

The man in the bed blinks his eyes open. They're a beautiful gray, though they're tired. “Alan?” he asks, voice rough. 

“I’m here,” Alan says immediately, moving closer. “I’m always going to be here.” 

_ Take his hand, _ a new voice softly commands, and Harry is surprised when it’s the man in the hospital bed that reaches up for Alan. 

_ What are you two doing here?  _ Jack’s voice, now, and Harry looks around to him, shocked to see Docie and Aaron standing by the hospital bed. They look just as shocked as Jack does.   


**_Okay, everyone tap_ _out,_** Aaron replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2/9 was "crossover"
> 
> The crossover will be continued for the next chapter, for the prompt for 2/13.


	14. Prompt 2/13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the crossover - Jack and Harry figure out what Docie and Aaron were doing in that dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me through days of silence. I'd love to tell you that the reason I took Valentine's off was because I was off doing romantic things or whatever (although, being Aro, I don't know that I actually *would* like to tell you that) but instead I've been dealing with physical health issues that have been leading to mental health issues.

When Harry taps out of Alan Garry’s dream, Jack is already on his feet. Harry scrambles to follow, then pulls up short before running into Jack’s back as Jack pauses right outside their office. Turns out, Docie and Aaron work right next to them. Or, now that Harry thinks about it, they probably had been thinking of he and Jack’s office, and ended up here automatically due to the dream magic that fueled Headquarters. 

“Is this what I think it is?” Jack asks, his voice breathy, seemingly with anticipation. 

“Code 142? Yeah, I think so.” Aaron’s Minnesotan accent drawls even in his excitement. 

Harry frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, slightly annoyed to always be the one left in the dark. “What’s Code 142?” 

“Soul mates,” Docie says with a happy sigh, like she can’t imagine anything better. 

“Soul mates...exist?” 

Jack’s face is a mixture of disbelief and happiness. “They do, supposedly. I’ve never seen a pair before.” 

“Neither have I,” Docie admits, and Aaron nods. “Well, shall we find a conference room?”

“As long as when we get there, you all explain yourselves,” Harry mutters, slightly mollified by Jack’s hand, warm on the small of his back. 

Finding a conference room turns out to be as easy as opening the doorway across the hall from them, because of course it is. The four of them settle into chairs, Docie pulling a laptop out of thin air while Jack brings out his file folder. 

“So,” Jack starts, looking at Harry, “When soul mates find each other in real life, they can walk in each other’s dreams.” 

“Whoa, really?” Harry raises his eyebrows. “I never heard of anything like that when I was alive.” 

“And yet you know about soul mates, even if you didn’t believe in them. It’s an idea that has enticed humans for thousands of years precisely because it  _ is _ real for some people,” Jack continues. 

“All people, Jack,” Docie corrects. “Everyone has a soul mate, you just might not meet them ever. There are 7 billion people on earth after all. And maybe you exist at the same time, but you aren’t appropriate ages for each other. That kind of thing. It’s really easy to miss your soul mate.” 

Aaron scrolls through on the laptop, bringing up a picture of the man who’d been in the hospital bed before. “But one definite way we Muses know, anyway, is when multiple assigned Muses show up in a dream.”

“Alan found his soul mate.” The way Jack says it, so pleased, so proud, makes Harry turn and kiss him. Jack blushes, but turns to Docie and Aaron. “Tell me everything about him.” 

“His name is Graeme Webster. He was Margie’s charge, actually. Fletcher assigned him to us after she moved on.” Docie taps her lips, concern creasing them. “He’s had an awful life. Aaron and I are trying to get him to reach out to people. He deserves a support net.” 

“We’re trying to get Alan to use his money, energy, and influence to move past the death of his high school friend.” Harry leans on the table, into the conversation, finally feeling at home with it. “He already sees Graeme in the place of his friend. To know they're soul mates - that could be the push Alan needs, even without our help.” 

“And Alan sounds exactly like the sort of person Graeme should trust. This is wonderful.” Docie’s face is bright and happy. She holds out her hand to shake Jack’s, then Harry’s, Aaron echoing her movements. “Let’s keep each other apprised, okay?” 

 

Much later, when Harry is cuddled up against Jack’s side, curling his fingers through the springy hair covering Jack’s chest, he hums. “Was Nathan your soul mate?” 

“Since I’ve read my Muse file, I can tell you no. As much as I loved him, no, he wasn’t. He was still my husband, and my love.”

“Of course,” Harry murmurs, pressing a kiss to Jack’s chest. 

Then he finally processes the first part of what Jack said, pushing up to look down at Jack’s face.  

“Wait, you can read your Muse file? Your own, I mean?” As soon as Harry says it aloud, a manila folder appears in his hand, his name emblazoned on the tab. “I guess that answers that question.” 

He doesn’t open it right away, though. Instead, he sets it on Jack’s chest and cuddles in again. “What you said about Nathan…” Harry purses his lips, trying to figure out what he wants to say. When he finally settles on it, he puts his hand on Jack’s cheek and meets his eyes. “I love you.” 

Jack inhales, then pulls Harry down to him, brushing their lips together. “Want to hear something funny?” Jack says with a broad smile. “I love you, too.” 

“Oh yeah, that’s hilarious,” Harry teases, nuzzling his nose against Jack’s. “And because I love you…” He tosses his file in the air, where it winks out of existence before it can spill its contents everywhere. 

Jack’s brow furrows, even though his lips stay tipped up. “Why do that for me?” 

“If I don’t look, it’s like...Schrodinger's soul mate. I love you. I  _ love  _ you. If I open that folder, and find out I have a soul mate that I met somehow but never dated, never fell in love with, I’ll always know you aren’t my soul mate. If I never open it, well. Muses will never have a way of knowing if they’ve met their soul mate, right? Because we don’t dream like that. So if I don’t open that file, we’ll never know if we are or not. And I’d rather have it be up in the air than remove all doubt.” 

Harry reaches down, taking Jack’s hand in his. “Instead, you’re my love. That’s all I need to know.” 

Speechless, Jack pulls Harry down for another kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2/13: Soul Mates


	15. Prompt 2/14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wakes up to find Jack shredding vestiges of his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another really short one, I'm sorry, guys. I spent most of the day sleeping. I hope I'm just fighting to get over a virus.

“What are you doing?” Harry’s voice still sounds clouded with sleep, and when Jack looks up, his heart is struck by how tired and adorable Harry looks in his pajamas.

“Did I wake you?” Jack sets another paper in the shredder, but it doesn’t make any sound - he wouldn’t be so cruel as to be shredding paper loudly in the middle of the night.

“More like the absence of you woke me.” Harry settles on the couch next to Jack, laying his head on Jack’s shoulder. “What are you doing?” he repeats.

Jack pauses, then hands Harry the paper he’d been about to shred.

He can feel Harry tense beside him. “Nathan? Why’re you shredding Nathan’s file?”

Jack sighs as he puts another paper through. “I’ve been dead for over ten years. He’s found happiness again, and-” he clutches at Harry’s hand, “-and so have I. It’s time to move on.”

Harry purses his lips, letting the paper he’d taken from Jack fall into the shredder. “This isn’t, like, permanently deleting him from the Muse system or anything, is it?”

“No. Just...helping myself get rid of a lifeline. It’s all symbolic.”

Harry presses a kiss to his neck. “Well, if it helps you feel better, then I won’t intrude. But I do hope you won’t get rid of that.” He nods at the picture of Jack and Nathan on their wedding day. Jack’s never been able to make himself will it away. “He’s important to your past. He has a place here still.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Wordlessly, Harry helps him shred the last of Nathan’s file. It’s strange - the act changes nothing of his deep-seated feelings for Nathan, but he does feel lighter, especially in his heart.

When they’re done, Harry slides into his lap, straddling it and leaning in to take his lips. “You did a good job, Jack.” Jack shivers under his touch, under the words.

“Thanks.” He lets his hands run down Harry’s back and slide under the waistband of his lounge pants.

“You know what I like to do to reward myself for doing something hard?” Harry does some little hip roll in Jack’s lap that makes Jack groan.

“What’s that, love?”

 

“Peel!”

“What? No!” Jack glances over at Harry, who has, indeed, used all of his Bananagrams tiles. They both grab for more.

“Bananas!” Harry yells, just moments later.

Jack doesn’t even bother seeing if Harry’s used all the right words or not, he just rolls over from his position on the floor and tackles Harry to his back. “Now I know why you suggested this game.”

“I’m also really good at Scrabble,” Harry says with a grin.

“I’ll show you really good,” Jack mutters, well aware the threat makes no sense. He can’t resist the ripe length of Harry’s neck, rubbing his beard there hard enough to make it pink. Harry squirms underneath him, his cock tenting his lounge pants and pressing against Jack’s thigh.

Jack pauses, though, feeling sweet, and presses their lips together. They slide through a few kisses, Jack doing his best not to let all of his weight rest on Harry. When he pulls back, nuzzling Harry’s cheek, he murmurs, “Thanks for before. For the distraction. For everything, really.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry leans up, kissing his cheek.

“I’d like to return the favor.” Jack’s hand slides down Harry’s front, circling his fingers over the wet spot the head of Harry’s cock is leaving on his pants.

“Be my- guest-” Harry groans, trying to chase the teasing of Jack’s fingertips with his cock.

Jack grins and pulls Harry’s pants down past his hips. He does the same for his own, producing a tube of lube and hastily slicking their cocks together.

“Oh fuck, oh Jack- God, fuck-”

Jack’s heart beats into overdrive at the sound of Harry’s pleasure. He loves how vocal Harry is; how he always knows exactly what Harry’s feeling during sex. It takes away a lot of guesswork for one, and it makes him feel like a sex god of some kind for two.

He returns to Harry’s neck, sucking a bruise there, nipping into the skin here. Harry’s words and moans are making his throat vibrate in the most delicious way.

“Jack!” With a final cry, Harry comes, his body arching into Jack’s fist. Jack chases him moments after, their cum littering their clothes until Jack wills it away. One of the many benefits to being dead is the clean up, after all.

Harry’s heart is still thudding in his chest as Jack lays his head there.

He’s not closing his heart to Nathan, Jack knows that. Nathan will always be a part of his heart, but Harry will, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was "fluff with a happy ending" which... it was a little angsty but.


	16. The End....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks - so this is mostly a shoutout and explanation for Zabzab and Fantastic Dream, who have commented on every single chapter along the way because they're amazing human beings, but to any lurkers out there, this is also for you.
> 
> I'm ending this story prematurely for two reasons:
> 
> The first big, main reason is because the prompts, while lovely for a traditional take on the February Ficlet Challenge, have not been "sparking joy" for me, as Marie Kondo would say. I really love this premise and I may return to it and to Jack and Harry as a more traditional novel at some point. I liked playing in this world but the prompts weren't really allowing me to play.
> 
> The second big reason is that I was diagnosed with Lyme Disease, which explains a lot of the symptoms I've been having, and now I'm on the (long, long) road to recovery. But I'm trying to make it a policy to say no to things that don't spark joy, and this fic had to be one of them. As I was falling asleep last night I realized that I had a really good idea for an a/b/o fic (sorry if that's not your thing) and that writing it would bring me joy and writing this no longer was.
> 
>  
> 
> I really, really appreciate everyone's wonderful support for this random original work, especially those of you who've told me that you'll read something just because it's me writing it. It's an amazing boost to my confidence to hear stuff like that, and I will always, always welcome it with open arms. I love you guys a lot, and I just want to write good stuff for you. <3 <3 <3

Jack and Harry may continue, but this is The End for now. 

**Author's Note:**

> This year for the February Ficlet challenge, similarly to Kinktober, I wanted to challenge myself to write original works that somehow incorporated the daily prompts. And thus, The Muses were born. My goal is to write as cohesive a story as possible, and it is, of course, a love story between Harry and Jack. We'll see how it goes!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and comments and kudos are always, and greatly, appreciated. :) <3


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